


Trek Ficlets from Tumblr

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ficlets, Other, Shippiness, warnings/pairings/info posted at the top of each chapter/ficlet, xover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-19 07:05:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 57
Words: 32,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8195122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: A series of ficlets written in haste and posted to Tumblr.   New piece 9/20/17:  chapter 57





	1. Satellite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCoy/Spock, Spock/Kirk, McCoy/Kirk. Unrequited, angst. Rated G. AOS.

It used to be Jim. Jim Kirk was the shining star at the center of Leonard McCoy’s universe, the force who made him get up every day, the nice juicy carrot on a stick who dragged him out of bed every morning, who made him risk life and limb in space, who kept him coming back for more.

He’d follow Jim anywhere.

He wasn’t quite sure when a second star entered his little solar system, when it wandered into his orbit and trapped him in its gravitational pull, when it turned into the center of his universe just as much as Jim, if not more.

He knows it by the time he follows it onto a transporter platform and lets it lead him back onto one of those horrible fucking bee-ships. Sure, Jim coaxed him aboard the Enterprise, but it took Spock to get him onto one of those damn things a second time.

He puts up a good front, a good fight, but he’s hooked through the bag and back, and he knows it. For all his bluster, for all his swearing, he followed Spock there. Nobody had to shove him up onto the transporter platform; he went under his own steam. If he’d follow the damned half-breed hobgoblin onto a death trap like that, he’d follow him anywhere.

For all his complaining, he never even thought of resigning his commission and leaving the Enterprise until they both nearly abandoned him there. It hurts to know he wasn’t enough to keep them; it hurts to know he’s not the one who made either of them decide to stay. He’s not the center of anybody’s universe. He’s the outsider, the follower, the rogue planet who runs in an erratic orbit around the shining stars and maybe influences them just a little bit here and there.

He’s glad he’s got both of them in spite of his loneliness. If one went away, he might just spiral down and burn up in the other one’s corona. They’ve found a tolerable equilibrium between the three of them; they’re balanced just the way they are.

If he has trouble sleeping at night, well, that’s his problem. He’s got his buddy Jack Daniels and his right hand to help, and when it comes to the latter, he knows how both of them smile, even Spock; he knows how both of them feel under his hands.

He’s touched the stars.

It’s no wonder he got burned.


	2. Carpe Diem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spock/Uhura, Spock/McCoy. Necklaces and respect and secrets. Maybe a little angst. AOS.

Leonard McCoy is minding his own damn business when he finds a necklace on his pillow. 

He stares at it for a while, surprised. It sparkles in the faux sunlight; it’s probably made of silver or something like that. It’s very shiny, but masculine. It has a design embossed in it. 

He wonders who put it there.

He goes and gets himself a drink—juice, thank you, he’s on call. He drinks every drop and grimaces at it like it’s whiskey. 

He gets a tricorder and scans the necklace without touching it. No sign of radiation—that’s a plus. No DNA evidence or fingerprints either. That’s… _fascinating._

He thinks about calling Scotty, but the man can’t keep a secret, so he calls Keenser instead.

“Scan this thing for trackability?” He asks. “Microchip, viridium traces, broadcasting transmitter, anything that’ll show up on a scan. I’ll get you the new glass coil you need for that still you have to rebuild.”

Keenser goes away and comes back with all kinds of instruments. It doesn’t take the little guy long before one of them starts bleating. Keenser shows him the display; the damn necklace has a little chip embedded in it that sounds off on an obscure frequency nobody in hell would ever think to check for. It’s got oomph, though; anybody who knows the frequency and has a starship’s powerful sensors at his fingertips could pick it up inside a couple dozen light-years.

“Uh huh, thanks. I figured as much. I’ll have you that coil by the time the ship’s rebuilt.”

He sees Keenser out and goes back to look more closely at the damn necklace. It has a weird little logo: an hourglass with wings. Above it the thing says “Carpe diem.” 

What the fuck’s that supposed to mean, anyway? What the hell does Spock want him to seize?

“Seize the damn Vulcan,” he mutters. “By the neck, goddammit, and squeeze.”

He can remember exactly what they said. 

_I always assumed my respect for you was clear._

_I’m glad he doesn’t respect **me**._

Spock uses the word respect in a number of ways, Leonard knows. Some of them are quite pragmatic and dull. Others are a lot fuzzier. A lot warmer. Words like ‘respect’ are synonyms for things Spock won’t say. 

‘Respect’ says a hell of a lot, actually. It’s just not clear precisely what—other than ‘I want to know you are safe, and if you are not, I will come for you.’

His eyes sting a little at that. Maybe it’s not so creepy after all.

Well hell. They’ve got secrets now, him and Spock. This’ll just be another one. Nobody’ll know but the two of them. That’s one thing Spock’s got going for him; he knows how to keep his mouth shut.

After all, where the hell’s he gonna be going that Spock shouldn’t know about? 

Leonard picks up the necklace in fingers that aren’t shaking—they _aren’t,_ damn it!—and puts it over his head. 

Spock’s going to be at Jim’s party. When the day comes, Leonard picks an open-necked T-shirt that’ll show the thing off and frames it with his best leather jacket and khakis.

He makes a point of eyeballing Uhura’s necklace at the party. Spock notices the attention, notices what he’s wearing, and looks at him with an expression that tenses to the point of subtle panic. Maybe he’s afraid of accusations, questions, a scene in front of Uhura. 

She wouldn’t like sharing Spock’s… respect. Not at all. 

No, this secret isn’t one he’ll be telling any time soon.

McCoy just lifts a brow and walks away.


	3. Touch (AOS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock/McCoy, ST:BEY, Spones-ish, unrequited (???)

McCoy tries not to touch Spock if he can help it.

Part of it’s medical training. He’s had xenosensitivity courses; he’s up to date on proper respectful procedures for every species aboard the Enterprise. He knows what you can touch, what you can’t touch, and the degrees of emergency that override politeness; he’s well-versed in the point at which he can take exception to the rules. 

Part of it’s his own natural nervousness. Spock’s a touch telepath. McCoy knows damn well mentally undisciplined, creative, highly emotional species like humans tend to carry around a lot of clutter inside their heads; they generate constant background noise that’s completely inappropriate for consumption by pretty much anybody. He doesn’t want that shit coming out.

Part of it’s guilt. He’s had specific thoughts-- consistent ones. Unprofessional ones. Intrusive ones. Hot, sweaty, naked, _insistent_ ones. About Spock. Can thoughts you don’t act on constitute harassment? Maybe for a telepath, they do. He doesn’t want Spock within a light year of those thoughts. 

So when he touches Spock, he tries to make sure he’s touching cloth, not skin. A shoulder tap, a sympathetic pat, a gesture to get attention-- they all land on cloth whenever he can manage it. 

When he examines Spock or works on him in sickbay, he wears rubber gloves to allow tactile sensitivity, but maintain a barrier.

He hopes it’s enough. 

Then Altamid happens and the emergency overrides everything. He tries not to touch Spock’s hands, his face, but you can’t exactly haul somebody around without getting some skin. Skin of wrists, belly skin (slippery with blood, that skin-- it’ll give him nightmares, not the sweet hot dreams he treasures, keeping them secret deep inside his heart). 

Skin of face.

When Spock won’t wake up, doesn’t answer his call, McCoy knows what he has to do. It’s in all his medical texts: how to rouse a Vulcan from the type of unconsciousness that’s heavier than sleep but lighter than a healing trance. He knows it and he dreads it and he does it anyway because Spock needs him to be the doctor, and that’s more important than anything else. 

He takes Spock’s head in his hands, his temples too cool, too dry between McCoy’s palms, his pulse the typical light, rapid Vulcan flutter-- only it’s irregular. Tachycardia from the bloodloss. His capillary refill rate looks bad, too. 

McCoy feels terror surge in him, and tenderness, a hopeless anguish, a helpless misery. He can feel the alien curve of Spock’s ears beneath his fingertips, surreal and impossible. He’s craved that for years. He swallows hard, starting a desperate mental chant. _LA LA LA I AM NOT THINKING OF ANYTHING IN PARTICULAR_ , loud like he’s singing grand opera, trying to convince them both-- 

He settles one thumb on the main psi point, the strongest telepathic contact locus Spock has. It wakes him up, all right, damn fast-- and he pushes McCoy’s hand away damn fast, too.

Spock’s eyes are wide and dark and startled looking up into his and he’s terrified something’s slipped. Mortified. Because even if nothing slipped, at the very least, now Spock knows he’s hiding something. Something big.

Even if his emotions didn’t transmit-- and McCoy wouldn’t bet on that even if Scotty set the odds at 1000 to 1-- it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s hiding.

So when Spock starts telling McCoy how much he’s _respected_ him, like it’s some kind of death-bed confession, McCoy panics. He can’t hear anymore. He _won’t_. He doesn’t want to know Spock’s _limits,_ sedate and mannerly and professional, courteous and well-governed. 

He wants to die with a little bit of stupid hope left. So he stops Spock, keeping it together by the skin of his teeth, hanging on to nonchalance by his fingernails. As the bees zero in it’s almost a relief-- he won’t have to face Spock again with his secret between them. 

At least he won’t die alone.


	4. Making It Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ST: AOS (Spock/Uhura, Spock/Kirk, Spock/McCoy, angst)

The movie was puerile, Spock recognized, but it did contain matter of interest in his ongoing quest to understand humans and relationships. Midway through viewing, as frequently occurred, he and Uhura paused its play to discuss a concept he found particularly puzzling.

“Do human couples frequently make such a list?”

“Of people who are exceptions to their exclusive sexual commitment?” Uhura tilted her head at him in what he had come to recognize as a somewhat dangerous way, intimating that she might swiftly move from contentment to irritation. “It’s not uncommon, I suppose, but usually it’s a joke. You saw how the couple in the movie both listed actors. It’s very unlikely they would meet the actors they named, and even less likely the actors would be willing to,” he watched her adjust her phrasing to accommodate him, “become intimate with them.”

“I see.” He did not, but he wanted to soothe her. “I merely wished to ascertain whether I should offer you the opportunity to specify such an individual, in order to meet your needs in our relationship.”

She hesitated just long enough he perceived a name had entered her mind, and he waited with patience and a certain amount of curiosity. 

“I’m just fine in our relationship.” She said after a moment.

He raised a brow at her. “That would not preclude your listing an individual for whom you would wish to make an exception.”

“Spock.” She sighed, world-weary. “Do you really want to open this can of worms?”

He simply looked at her and waited, ignoring the metaphor. She shook her head with exasperation. “When it’s someone closer to you, someone potentially attainable, making a list like that can cause real problems.”

“Then it is someone we know.” That would make it one of the Enterprise crew. Interesting.

“Yeah, well, do _you_ have someone you’d put on that list?” As was typical, she defended by attacking. 

He considered her question, aware of the potential for argument, but he elected to be truthful nonetheless. “Yes, I believe I do.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you.”

“Your own response indicated you have a list as well,” he observed in his mildest voice. 

“A _list._ More than one?”

He tilted his head. “Two, to be precise.”

Now her eyes were snapping. “Which of our friends is on your list?” he said, trying to forestall her inquiry and judging that her anger would make an honest answer more likely.

She flushed and looked away instead of answering. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. Why don’t you tell me who’s on your list, since you’re so keen to make one?”

Spock tilted his head. “It would hurt you for me to answer, so I will not.”

“I already know,” she said, her voice harsh. “Jim.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging the truth of her insight. 

“And I’ll bet I know the other one, too,” she continued, reckless in her annoyance. “But you don’t want me to say it, do you? No more than I want to say mine. Because that would make it real.”

Spock felt himself flush, and regretted opening the topic of conversation. “You have made your point,” he said. “I will not press you further.” The name hovered on his tongue, in his mind, unspoken, a soft ache that would grow keen if he dwelled on it. 

Jim he could imagine giving himself to freely; Jim he could love without embarrassment or reserve. Jim had a heart as wide open as the sky, and as giving. Spock could spend one night or ten thousand with Jim, and stand a lifetime at his side– or they would share no nights at all, and the love between them would still be as good, as pure, and they would still be one. It hurt him, though, that Jim felt so isolated, so alone.

The other was also alone, and Spock knew he hurt, too, with a sorrow deeper than oceans. He was a tempest, a tumult, a constant torment. The ragged sweetness of him, the intensity of his feeling, the perfect transparency of the ridiculous shield of denial he clutched over his heart so desperately, struggling to convince everyone, but perhaps most of all Spock, and second, himself…. 

To love him would be to surrender to explosion, to immolation, to an absolute destruction of what had come before, rebuilding Spock’s entire world into something inexpressibly perfect and all-consuming.

He swallowed, aware of Uhura gazing at him, terrible knowledge in her eyes. 

He felt his lips move to speak the name, felt them stop, his breath confined behind them, a halted tide. His tongue moistened his lips; he felt them part to admit the inhale, the exhale that would form the word. He closed his eyes; he could not see her in this moment, could not bear to see the hurt he had caused. 

“I am sorry,” he said, and it surprised him that those words were upon his tongue, and not the other, the one that cried in his heart.


	5. That Damn Trope Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bones/various, AOS. Forced sex. Humor, mild angst.

It’s ridiculous, really, the significance different cultures place on sexual relations. It’s also unbelievable how often aliens think it’s a great idea to make Starfleet personnel have sex with one another due to some trumped-up justification, some ridiculously thin excuse. However, no matter how ridiculous the excuse, no matter how illogical the reasoning, no matter how improbable the situation… _it just keeps happening._

*****

The C’roleans like public gang-bangs. They like them a lot. Way too much for your average sentient species, in fact. And they apparently like Leonard McCoy entirely too much, too. It figures.

“If you wish to prove your veracity as ambassadors of your culture, you will undertake the sacred rites,” they say. “It is a gesture of hospitality and trust.”

“And the alternative?” McCoy sputters.

“Untrustworthy ambassadors are ritually executed by dismemberment. Or, if you prefer, by immolation.”

Of _course_ they are.

McCoy rolls his eyes and agrees. He’s taken into the C’rolean temple and stripped. Washed. Primped. Gussied. Cleansed. …Drugged.

Then they put him on an altar and tell the rest of the landing party to have at him. 

By that time Leonard is so goddamned high he thinks it’s hilarious. 

Jim goes first. It’s kind of a relief, really. Bones can’t help but laugh; his mind is soaring and every sensation is magnified and it’s just too fucking funny watching Jim trying to be all composed and unselfconscious and suave and seductive when Bones is lying there naked and lubricated and amused as all goddamned hell. 

Jim does his best, Bones will give him that; it can’t be easy to have to get it up for your best friend, your former roommate, and your current Chief Medical Officer when all he can do is lie there and giggle. 

Kirk manages to penetrate him, though, and that’s what’s required. “Can I get you a sedative?” Bones offers, quite charitably, as Kirk’s puffing and sweating through the required thrusting. “Or some sildenafil citrate?” 

“You can shut the goddamn hell up,” Kirk tells him, and that starts Bones laughing again. 

He pats Kirk on the bare, sweating back-- or he would, but apparently his hands are tied. “Just take your time. Not in any kind of a rush here.” It feels pretty good, euphoric, and he likes looking at Jim’s face, suffused with embarrassed blood, his lip bitten, his head turned aside in a somewhat considerate fashion. 

“Everybody relax and enjoy the show!” Bones invites, cordial and feeling unreasonably charitable. “Wait your turn… I’ve got plenty of ass for everybody. No shoving.”

“Bones, god _damn_ it,” Kirk gasps. He shuts his eyes and stops being considerate and ruts inside Bones as hard as he can, desperate to get himself off. 

“Don’t rush it. Who knows when you’ll get another shot at my ass?” 

“Never, I hope!”

Bones considers aliens, being what they are. “Don’t count on it.”

*****

Chapel is next. “Now I need the little blue pill,” McCoy tells her. “No offense, Christine.”

“Shut up, doctor.” She keeps a remarkable amount of aplomb as she climbs aboard.

“You know I like ‘em tall, dark, and handsome. And male. Just like you do, actually. But you’re only scoring 25% on that particular scale.” He informs her of these things quite professionally, in the proper tone of a superior officer addressing a subordinate.

“Unlike the captain, doctor, I’ll climb right off you and steal one of your socks and stuff it in your mouth to keep you quiet,” Christine tells him. She doesn’t feel half bad clasped around him, really. 

He tries to remember to keep his mouth shut; really he does, but it’s harder than you’d think. “Whatever they drugged me with’d be worth a fortune on the black market.”

“Shall I try to get some for later?” She asks, dry, and tightens down, dragging herself against him to get what she needs. 

“Hell yeah.” Bones laughs and pushes up against her, hospitable. “It’d do wonders for the ship’s bowling league.”

*****

“Jim?”

No answer.

“JIM!” 

No answer.

“JIM, DAMMIT. WHY THE HELL’D WE BRING KEENSER?”

“Just shut up and ride it out, Bones.”

*****

“And remember, ensign, lubricant was not invented by anybody, repeat, _anybody_ , in Leningrad,” Bones says, patting his current partner in a paternal fashion. Or he would, if his damn hands weren't still tied.

Chekov just lets his head fall onto Bones’s collarbone and whimpers.

*****

Sulu tries to make him swear not to tell Ben. 

“After I come down, I’ll probably agree to that,” Bones tells him charitably. “You’re pretty good at this. You should give the kid some pointers.”

“Nurse?” Sulu pants, turning his face aside. 

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Could you get me one of those socks you mentioned?”

“Joke’s on you. They took my socks,” Bones chortles. “Dammit, where’s Spock? Isn’t it his turn yet?”

“I think he’s off searching for a cyanide capsule,” Sulu tells him, finishing with a grunt.

Bones pouted. “Well, you don’t have to get hostile about it.”’

*****

“I don’t like that they’ve bound my wrists,” Bones announces petulantly, to no response.

“That’s really nice. Do it again.” Same answer.

“I’d really like to be able to touch you right about now.” This silent treatment is getting way too predictable.

“You’re going to hate me forever, aren’t you.” Even with the drug in him, he feels something very like melancholy. 

“No, Leonard. I do not hold you responsible for this.” Spock’s voice is extremely kind. He presses inside.

Either the drug is phasing into some new stage of effect, or Spock is a lot better at this than the others, which totally doesn’t make any damn sense whatsoever. McCoy is about to say so, except….

“That’s… that’s really good,” Bones gasps. “Like that, like thaaaaat….”

“Oh my God, he’s actually getting into it this time,” Jim mutters, somewhere off to the left. "It _figures._ " Yeah, McCoy thinks it’s Jim. He can’t concentrate, not with Spock inside him, not with the drug evaporating his mind into effervescent, fizzing sparks of joy. 

He wants a kiss, and he _gets_ one before he can ask—hot, sweet, wet, deep _perfection_. 

All he can do now is moan; he can hardly hear the kibitzing from the peanut gallery. Chapel's muttered “Uhura’s gonna kill them both” is the last thing he pays any attention to, because Spock’s eyes are locked on his and his body is deep inside McCoy’s and he’s everything Bones ever dreamed of. He’s _everything_. 

McCoy’s cheeks are wet and he thinks his mind might explode from how good it is and _this_ is what he’s gonna be embarrassed about tomorrow, not the rest of it, _THIS._

*****

Except he isn’t embarrassed about anything because he can’t remember anything in the morning, and nobody’s talking. Even Spock’s official report just says that McCoy was given an unknown substance as part of a C’rolean welcome ceremony and “reacted unfavorably, requiring medical treatment.”

All McCoy has is a headache and a sore ass and a hell of a lot of unanswered questions. And Uhura’s not talking to him. And Christine digs into her private stash to give him a new pair of hand-knitted socks, for fucksake. Even Jim’s acting jumpy.

The only one who acts just the same is Spock, so he swallows his pride and makes himself ask. “Did I— with who? Did _you…?"_

“My respect for you is unchanged in light of my experience, Leonard,” Spock says softly. His eyes are gentle, even warm; they hold no condemnation. ….Somehow, that makes everything all right. 

After that, his only regret is that he doesn’t remember.


	6. That Damn Trope Again: Comment Fic Sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bones/Spock, AOS. Continues chapter 5; apparently I ended the last one in a bad spot. Here's the revised version of the continuation I wrote in the comments for Theanishimori. I hope I've eliminated most of the continuity problems that arose from writing this late at night and at about 100 miles per hour!
> 
> Please forgive me, but this one's in past tense even though the last one was in present tense. It just happened that way, and I'm not going to rewrite it all.

McCoy went to Chapel first, and together they took him through an advanced brain-scan and several related diagnostics, then attempted several remedial therapies, including hypnotherapy. It all proved inconclusive.

"You should remember. There weren't any compounds in that intoxicant that should've prevented the encoding of short-term memory, or of long-term memory, either." Chapel frowned at his brain scans for the umpteenth time. "That's strange. Something's interfered, though. Even the hypnosis we did didn't turn anything up between going to the temple and waking up here... it doesn't make any sense. I can't explain it."

It was very strange, except McCoy had a sneaking suspicion that it really wasn't as inexplicable as she thought.

"Speculate on a hypothesis," McCoy muttered, knowing damn well he was right. "Could telepathic interference produce this result?"

She raised an eyebrow, picture-perfect, her expression turning thoughtful. "Yes, doctor. It could."

"There's our mystery, then. Spock just didn't want me to remember." Bones felt his fist clench, but he forced himself not to hit anything with it. He needed that fist, damn it.

Chapel looked embarrassed but sympathetic. "He didn't seem to hold a grudge."

"He didn't have to. Why would he, when I don't remember anything that happened?" He whirled on her. "But I'll bet you do."

"Well, yes, doctor." She looked embarrassed. "We all do, except you."

"Then tell me."

"Well, the C'roleans drugged you. It was a mild aphrodisiac and a strong euphoric. You were floating on cloud nine. You were so out of it you didn't seem to care what you were saying-- or doing, either." She shifted. "We all... had to, to _be with_ you until... climax, and while we were observing the requirements of the ritual, you were laughing and joking about anything that came into your mind. It made it hard to concentrate on getting off, I can say that."

"I joked at Spock while he fucked me." Bones covered his face with one hand and groaned.

"Well... no, actually, you didn't." She looked she'd have liked to make a quick escape, but Bones stood between her and the door.

"No?" He lifted his head and surveyed her with a jaundiced eye.

"No. Him, you... actually seemed to enjoy."

Bones dropped his head again and groaned. "Enjoy?"

"You complained that your wrists were bound because you wanted to touch him. You asked if he'd hate you later. He said no, he didn't hold you personally responsible. Then.... you did a lot of, well." She flushed. "Moaning. Whimpering. Plead--"

"Yes, yes, yes," he interrupted her. "I get the picture. _Enjoying._ " He was so horribly beet-red he thought it possible his capillaries might freeze this way. Bones groaned and yanked on his own hair, trying to haul out a fistful or two.

"Stop that." She slapped at his wrist.

"Stop telling me what I did. Tell me what _he_ did, why don't you?"

"Well, he did _you_ , more or less," she said, sharp with sarcasm. "In the standard way, involving insertion of Tab A into Slot B."

"Well, yeah, but how'd he act while he did it? Did he act like he liked it? Was he disgusted? Did he get all ramrod stiff like he-- shut up, you know what I mean-- does when he's pissed off? What?!"

"I think you'll have to ask him if you want to know what he was thinking. It's not like I was standing over the two of you with a medical scanner taking notes, Leonard." She looked at him and sighed, relenting. "He didn't act like he wanted to slit his wrists to get away, no-- and believe me, after that business with the Platonians, I'd know. He was... calm. He seemed like he was in the moment. That's all I can tell you."

Bones sagged. "I can't ask him," he muttered. "He's the one who didn't want me to know."

*****

Maybe Spock had been right to banish the memory. Just having it confirmed verbally by Christine was about to drive Leonard right out of his damned mind. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

McCoy thought about it when he woke up, when he brushed his teeth, when he took a piss, and when he had his morning coffee. He thought about it when he wasn't actually in surgery, while he was at lunch, and during his mid-afternoon break. It was the first thing he thought about when he went off-shift. It kept him quiet while he sat and ate his dinner; it kept him from concentrating on reading medical journals and xenophysiological research resources during the evening. It haunted him in the shower; it kept his eyes open and he lay staring at the bulkhead long into the night.

Maybe if he actually knew the details, McCoy theorized, he could resign himself to reality and stop thinking about it. He could stop wondering how much Spock had hated every second of touching him. He could stop excoriating himself for not having been sane enough to treat Spock exactly as flippantly he'd apparently treated everyone else. He could stop trying to hide in storage closets or the men's room whenever Lieutenant Uhura came near sickbay for some reason, wondering when she'd be gone and it'd be safe to come out again.

The rumor mill had it she and Spock were on the outs again, so Bones checked his chrono and sat down on a carton of toilet paper to give it another ten minutes before he dared to emerge. You couldn't be too careful.

He shut his eyes, sagging with fatigue, and tried to stop wondering how it felt to moan and whimper and plead because he was _enjoying_ Spock. "I saw him lean down and kiss you," was all Jim had been willing to say before clamming up tight. Bones felt a shiver go through him, and he wrapped his arms around himself, pretending he felt cold. He squeezed his eyes tight-shut, trying again to imagine what it might have been like.

"Uhura's gone," M'Benga came in for a box of plastic gloves. "You can come out now."

Bones did, sighing and rubbing his neck as he wandered into the corridor. Maybe he ought to ask for a transfer to Yorktown. Once he was off the ship he could keep pushing for reassignment till he got back to Earth. He couldn't exactly set up shop in Georgia, but maybe San Francisco was far enough away to satisfy Jocelyn. He could work at training medical cadets coming up through Starfleet academy; there was always a need for qualified xenobiologists and surgeons who could handle extraterrestrial anatomy. _Not that I got to handle any._

"Dr. McCoy."

Bones executed a complicated maneuver during which his skeleton shied 90 degrees to the left while his skin attempted to leap 90 degrees to the right, all while his feet tried to whirl him around 180 degrees to face the threat. That was way too many degrees. They left him standing in front of Spock with all his nerves jangling, feeling like he'd just bitten the live wire of an electric fence.

Spock tilted his head, inquisitive, and paused, giving him a moment to get hold of himself.

"Mr. Spock. What can I do for you?" The standard pleasantry suddenly curdled on his tongue, leaving him redfaced and stammering. _Not like there's much left I haven't already done for you, apparently!_

"You may accompany me to give your opinion regarding renovations to the biology lab," Spock said, and gathered him up neatly, ushering him along as if he were not a mortified and humiliated husk of a man.

The plans were familiar except for a spectral analysis station and the equipment it required. He relaxed a little, absorbing himself in making some necessary suggestions, his head bent over the plans next to Spock's dark one.

Their fingers nearly brushed as he pointed out the station's proximity to an inconveniently placed supply closet, and he jerked his hand back, stammering a hasty apology.

"It is no matter," Spock said softly, and set the padd aside. "Leonard... you are troubled."

The use of his first name made him jerk his gaze away, flustered. "I am," he confessed. "It's unsettling to me that such intimate things happened between us, but I can't remember them." He tried not to hang his head like a disciplined child.

"Ah. I erred, then, when I blocked the memories. I had hoped to ease your embarrassment." Spock tilted his head and lifted his hand. "I am able to restore them, if you wish it."

"I can't guarantee I'll be any more comfortable if you do." McCoy sighed. "But I think I'd prefer it if you did."

"Do you want them all?" Spock's voice seemed deeper than usual. "Or would you prefer some portion remain withheld?"

McCoy considered. _I just want your part_ seemed an imprudent response. "Give me all of it except Keenser." If he started climbing the walls around anybody else after he got it back, he could always do some hypnotherapy.

Spock very nearly smiled, but managed to keep himself in check. He settled his fingertips carefully against Leonard's face, and there was a strange sense of displacement, as if the two of them remained still while the rest of the universe shifted several feet to the left.

"My mind to your mind," Spock said very softly. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

Leonard became aware of Spock's swift pulse singing through his nerves, and felt a pressure building on his mind, as if Spock's fingertips bypassed the skull to push against his dura mater, then penetrated the arachnoid tissue and sank deep into the pia mater, sending out roots. He gasped; it didn't hurt the way an unexpected invasion of his body would have, but he felt strangely full and awkward, which reminded him oddly of intercourse.

"I disabled the synapses surrounding your memory so they would fail to fire in response to queries regarding the events of that evening," Spock explained without speaking, his deep voice echoing in McCoy's brain. "Restoring the memory is a simple matter of returning their ability to transmit."

It tickled, and it almost hurt. McCoy heard himself make a low sound, somewhere between moan and a grunt, and was not sure if he sounded sexual or merely pained. He made the sound again and nestled against Spock's palm, suddenly eager for more; the memory was coalescing now, slowly but steadily, as Spock granted him access to what had lain hidden.

"Oh," he gasped, remembering Spock's touch, and that was definitely not a sound of pain this time, but it wasn't a pure pleasure, either; humiliation bubbled somewhere below dawning awareness, threatening to boil over.

Spock, within him. Flesh on flesh, flesh in flesh. McCoy remembered being touched by Spock's lips, hands. Eyes.

Those same dark, depthless eyes were waiting when he opened his own, finding Spock watching him with a soft-half-hooded gaze, just as he had when they were joined. They held his gaze now as he blinked in unison with them. McCoy realized they were joined now just as deeply and intimately as before. More so.

He made the little pained, needy sound again, only now it was breathy; now it was a plea.

Spock leaned in and kissed him, soft and shallow and hot, lips dragging at his. Behind the sensation, memory unfolded fully-- the slow, powerful strokes of Spock's body occupying his; the smooth dry friction of Spock's hot hands on his skin. The way they had breathed together, life mingling between their mouths. In memory he could see Spock's dark, expressive eyes over him; he could see his own mirrored in them, dilated too wide and a little bloodshot, his lips parted in a smile of such childlike wonder it hurt to see, hurt to know he had been left so terribly open, so easily read. He could feel how Spock's soft-furred belly had dragged against his cock, every stroke nearly driving him over the brink. 

He could hear himself moan and beg; he could sense how of all the couplings he had received, this was the only one that truly touched the depth of his heart.

Spock knew all these things.

McCoy flushed, turning his head away with a sudden surge of uncertainty, meaning to break the meld in his shame, but Spock's fingers followed. They pressed into his flesh, turning his head, tipping his chin back to where it belonged.

"Leonard." Spock whispered his name against his lips: reassurance. Acceptance. Hope. Spock filled him, held him.

The universe stood still, poised in terrible indecision between loss and love.

Slowly McCoy lifted his arms and slid them around Spock's neck, around his back; he pulled Spock very close, feeling him acquiesce, feeling him come close as if from a far distance, willing. This perilous, wondrous thing hovered between them, delicate and fragile, new and impossible and terrifying. He waited-- a heartbeat, a breath, a dozen, two. And still Spock did not pull away.

Maybe it had been the same for him as it now was for McCoy: a revelation.

He became aware of the sounds of the ship all around them-- the subtle shudder and whine of the engines, the slow progress toward the unknown future that awaited.

They could face it together.

"You wanted me?" he whispered the question against Spock's mouth, trembling.

Spock simply answered "Yes," and kissed him.


	7. Mini-fics from prompts (1 of 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spones (AOS): a fistfight for @androgynousclintbarton

Bones hates fighting, but there are just some things a man’s gotta fight for. He ducks under a fist and sucks at the blood on his knuckles, grimacing. It hurts like fuck to hit somebody, and it’s against every ounce of the philosophies he holds most dear, but this guy earned it. He headbutts the bastard in the groin without pausing to think again.

The guy has friends, of course. He hears a hiss behind him and barely ducks the swing of a chair-leg, striking at his assailant’s vulnerable knee as he goes down on his belly. The guy falls like a pole-axed ox; legs don’t work very well when you’ve got no goddam kneecaps.

That takes most of the fight out of the rest of them; they watch him warily as he scrambles to his feet and backs away. “You don’t talk shit about my friend,” Bones says to the two writhing men on the floor. “Only I get to do that. I’ve earned it, you little pissants.” He tosses money for his drink onto the bar and staggers out with a minimum of additional mayhem. 

“Scotty, can you beam me directly to my quarters?” He doesn’t want anybody on board to see him; nobody gets to know about this one if he can help it.

“This wouldn’t have anythin’ t’do with the call that just went out for station security and medical to respond to a barroom brawl, would it?”

“Nothing whatsoever.” Bones feels blood trickle out of his nose onto his lip and licks it away, grimacing.

“What started it?” The tingle of transport starts in the tips of Bones’s fingers and toes.

“They insulted Jim,” he lies.

“Not buying it.”

Bones dematerializes and reassembles again– in his quarters, but unfortunately his communicator’s still active.

“They called the Enterprise a garbage scow,” he tries, hopeful.

“Now that’d be enough for me, but not for you.” Scotty chuckles. “There’s only one thing I know of that’d piss you off enough to fight for– what’d they say about Spock?”

“They called him a paragon of human decency,” Bones lies again. “I couldn’t let that kind of insult to my species go unchallenged.” Damn it! Now it’s gonna be all over the ship that he fought a bar full of thugs to defend Spock’s honor. Fuck! He’ll never live it down. That damned eyebrow will go up, and Spock won’t _quite_ smirk, but… _**hell**_. 

“Your secret’s safe with me, doctor, if you’ll share the booze I know you beamed up this morning.” He can hear the goddamn smirk, damn it. 

Bones sighed, this time with relief. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Scott, but that’s a deal.”


	8. Mini-fics from prompts (2 of 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spones (AOS), a stolen kiss for @mckirkish

It’s hard for McCoy’s day to get even worse with Kirk gone and Spock sitting in the captain’s chair– again– but it does.

“Mr. Sulu, you have the conn.”

“What? What are you doing?”

“I will beam over myself and effect the captain’s release. By exchange, if necessary.”

“You can’t! This is suicide.” McCoy trots along in his wake. “You can’t be sure they’ll give him back if you beam over. They’ll just take you, too.”

“Doctor, I must try.” Spock strides calmly off the bridge. McCoy feels like a terrier yapping at the first officer’s heels as he pursues, small and angry and insignificant, a nuisance to be ignored. 

“Dammit, Spock.” He slips into the turbolift before the doors can close. “I can’t lose both of you.” Tears prickle at his eyes– and he tells himself it’s fury, not grief. Fury at losing Jim; fury at not being able to persuade Spock. Fury at not having a better way.

“Doctor,” Spock’s voice is soft, “I _must_ try.”

Bones reaches out, desperate, meaning to grasp Spock’s shoulder; Spock draws back, staring at him. The turbolift lurches downward, making Bones’s stomach sink. Spock lifts his hand, tentative; he extends two fingers.

Not sure what’s expected of him, Bones responds in kind; Spock touches their fingertips together, and Bones blinks, surprised. Spock is abruptly there– all of him, overwhelming like a thunderclap, affection and exasperation flashing into Bones with searing force.

Bones gasps; Spock’s heartbeat resonates through him, a fleet liquid flutter. Spock’s fingers move in a brief caress. It’s everything they’ve never said.

Then the circuit is broken and Bones is alone again, stunned; the door slides shut between them before he can recover, and the turbolift drags him down, away. He sags against the wall, dry-eyed, anything but calm, his fingers tingling.

He raises them to his lips. Then a single tear escapes, bitter and sweet.

If that green-blooded bastard ever makes it back, Bones is going to _kill_ him.


	9. Mini-fics from prompts (3 of 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spones (AOS), a flash of anger, for @androgynousclintbarton

The glass breaks quietly, a jagged piece punching inward under the pressure of McCoy’s fingers. The chatter of the crowd drowns out the little crunching sound and Bones’s grunt of pain.

It’s fortunate, really; the thing could’ve made a lot of noise. It could’ve been full instead of mostly empty. It could’ve shattered into a thousand theatrical pieces with whiskey erupting everywhere, like a fountain. Instead, one side merely crumples in his hand. The shard that pierces Bones’s finger is very small. It’s not positioned to do much damage, just draw a little blood.

Bones feels his face go rigid; he keeps walking, pretending nonchalance, getting farther away from Spock before he can notice something’s wrong. He doesn’t ease the grip of his hand; he wants the pain. It eclipses his rage; it dulls the deeper pain inside of him.

He took her back. The stupid bastard.

She has that fucking necklace around her neck. He wore a necklace of his own, pretending somebody somewhere gives that much of a rat’s ass about him, but he bought it himself. It’s not the same.

Bones drops the broken tumbler into a garbage receptacle and gets himself another drink, ignoring the blood welling from the cut in his finger and another in his palm. He spills just a little whiskey on his hand to sterilize the wounds, pretending to be drunker than he is. 

It was just a little lapse, that’s all. Just a moment’s aggravation. Probably left over from the rage he felt seeing crewmen die because of that bastard Krall. It’s transference, that’s all.

By the time the bleeding stops and he goes over to Jim, joining him in watching the new Enterprise take shape, he almost believes it.


	10. Mini-fics from prompts (4 of 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spones (AOS), under cover of darkness for @theanishimori

It’s not easy to be respected in broad daylight, especially not when respect is an evasion and means so much more.

It’s easier at night, when nobody can see. By day Bones will bitch and piss and moan and deflect and deny and divert and dissemble; he’ll shield them both. But by night….

The cave is as black as the inside of an elephant. It’s also cold, and the blankets aren’t nearly enough, but Spock lies down next to Bones. His hand is close, and when Bones touches it, it doesn’t move away. Even Bones can’t see who he’s touching. Listening to the breathing of all the others, he can twine their fingers together and nobody will see and he can pretend he never even did this.

But oh, that hand is warm, and it curls into his with a pure perfection that makes his breath catch.

Spock turns over and settles onto him, pillowing his head on Bones’s shoulder, doubling their blankets with a deft little flip that makes almost no noise at all.

Bones’s hand doesn’t behave itself, glorying in the luxury of invisibility. It moves stealthily, sliding down. Spock’s breath gives a little hitch; his hips push forward.

Bones knows, with a ghost of a smile, that Spock will most certainly still respect him in the morning.


	11. Mini-fics from prompts (5 of 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spones (AOS), an obscure AU for @intuitivelyfortuitious

Éomer rides out from Edoras on Firefoot, pensive, fidgeting with a bit of harness that ought to be mended. He trusts his steed enough that it doesn’t stop him. If the strap breaks, the horse won’t bolt. Not even if Éomer comes off– and he doesn’t mean to do any fancy acrobatics on this journey, so it ought to do until he can get a bit of new leather and see to the mending.

He’s on his way to Gondor to see the King; he needs to get out of the house for a while. Imrahil is a good sort, and his daughter Lothiriel is of respectable blood and good breeding… but she was not raised in the Mark, and she can be difficult. Their marriage is a purely political one. At times he is discontent. He yearns for his old bachelor days, sleeping among the warriors of his éored, sharing comfort and adventure as they would.

He nearly misses the tracks, preoccupied by fretting over the bit of fraying leather. He gives no sign he’s seen them, though, riding idly on, loosing the reins so it will appear Firefoot has his head. But he steers the beast subtly with his knees, and his fingers reach idly to steady the spear he has couched and ready by his foot.

He rides past a stone outcrop, humming, then whirls Firefoot and draws the spear in one swift motion, spurring forward.

The stranger is an elf, haughty with upswept brows and long black hair, glossy as a raven’s wing. It’s obviously from a different sort of Elvenkind than his merry Mirkwood friend. This grave and silent elf puts him in mind of Gondor’s queen, of the fabled Noldor, but he never saw this one at the coronation, and no warrior on two legs is welcome in the Mark unannounced and unescorted.

The elf faces the spear without betraying any evidence of fright, standing upright. His horse has thrown a shoe, and holds its hoof aloft, lamed.

“You’ll need a smith for that, friend.” Éomer pulls back his spear, mindful of Aragorn’s firm alliance with Rivendell. “Have you come to visit the king of Gondor and his queen? If so you are astray, but I can lead you thither.”

The elf tilts his head and answers in an unknown tongue– not at all the liquid, melting language of Mirkwood, or the grand and elegant phrases of Rivendell. It is harsh, with strong consonants. But his voice is beautiful, dark and rich like stout beer. Several times he uses the strange word “makhoi,” an uncouth word that Éomer has never heard.

These are times of peace, and the elf bears no apparent weapon, so Éomer dismounts and approaches, trusting in his armor if all else fails. Elves are, in the main, goodly folk; Lothiriel herself has Elvish blood in her, the blood of Númenor.

The elf draws back, avoiding the offered clasp of Éomer’s outstretched hand, but he raises his empty sword-hand in token of peace, fingers parted strangely.

“I am a friend,” the elf says then, in badly accented Rohirric. “You were lost to us, and I have come far to find you.” He pulls a small box from his belt; it chirps like a bird, and he speaks into it in his unknown tongue.

Éomer steps back, laying his hand on his sword in alarm, but there is no defending against the tingling lights that encompass him. “What wizardry is this?!” he shouts. Has Eru Ilúvatar sent a Maia to summon him home? Will his burial mound lie beside Théodred’s before he grows old?

But this place cannot be the far green country of which the wizard Gandalf spoke; it is an enclosed and ugly room containing many strong men in garb of red. Éomer lashes out with Gúthwinë in his fist before the elf catches his shoulder in a grip like a vise and all the world goes dark.

When McCoy awakens, his mind is his own once more, and the Third Marshal of the Mark is a fading memory.


	12. All Our Yesterdays AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spock/Zarabeth (brief mention), Spock/McCoy. Explicit. TOS.
> 
> Warning: semi-consensual, rough sex, biting, blood

The first sound the doctor makes is surprise. He can’t articulate it, of course; he merely makes a sharp, shocked cry in his throat, and his whole body stiffens, jerking against the pressure that holds him fast. 

The second sound the doctor makes is anger. It pulses out of him in a predictable shockwave, laced through with heady notes of astonishment and a subtle thread of fear. It is deeper in his throat, almost a growl.

Protest follows. Little sharp grunts muffle themselves against Spock’s lips and open McCoy’s mouth so Spock’s tongue can thrust inside. By this time Spock’s realized what he’s doing; he’s as startled as McCoy is, maybe. But he’s not going to stop; he’s not going to let those sounds turn into accusations. He drinks them from McCoy’s mouth, lips forcing McCoy’s open further.

McCoy’s body crushes against the wall, narrow and angular and hard. Spock presses his hip against McCoy’s belly, his thigh shoving its way between McCoy’s thighs. The wall is cold; McCoy jerks. Spock is conscious briefly of the woman behind him, clutching at furs to cover her body. He does not care. He sought to avoid this moment by turning to her, but he has failed. McCoy would not let him go so easily.

McCoy’s hands are hard and angry; they push at Spock, trying to lever him away. Spock is far too strong for McCoy, and he has no idea why he is doing this, yet he will brook no argument, so he does not let McCoy succeed in shoving him away. He continues kissing McCoy, wrath and lust pulsing through him in equal measure. He continues because the fire has kindled, consuming him; he continues because he does not know what to say or do when he stops.

The next sound McCoy makes is helpless, filled with lust and shame. His penis is growing hard against Spock’s body. Spock could describe the chemical reactions that cause it, and knows the euphoria sweeping McCoy, turning his protests to sounds of pleasure. He has, after all, only just experienced this himself. But that was a weak and passing thing; this is stronger.

McCoy’s hands cease to push and begin to clutch; they knot in Spock’s shirt, and his mind fills with indecision. He wants. He resists. He welcomes. He resents. Spock continues kissing him, stabbing his tongue deep. When he recovers sufficiently, he will do this even more intimately; he will penetrate McCoy and thrust himself inside. 

The hands give up the battle; they release their fists and tremble; they settle on Spock and shape his shoulders as McCoy surrenders. His penis is a brand against Spock’s belly. His mouth is soft and hot, yielding to Spock’s invasion. In a moment he will– yes. _Yes._ His tongue stirs, sliding against Spock’s for the first time, and Spock growls in triumph, a low rumble deep in his throat.

The woman has gone; her startled, angry words did not reach Spock’s deaf ears. In her absence the kiss turns wet and sloppy and frantic as McCoy begins to give, as protests turn to eagerness, his body yielding. Spock no longer has to force McCoy against the wall, but his hips have a mind of their own, and they pin McCoy there anyhow. 

McCor rips his mouth away for a moment– an instant. “Spock,” he gasps, and Spock takes that moment to escalate, to pick him up, to put him down on his back in his bed– not the one that smells of female, but the one where Spock laid him and tended him before this madness came. 

He settles over McCoy; his desire is beginning to stir his body once more, and as he covers the doctor, their shafts align and McCoy makes a little wounded sound, his arms curving around Spock, embracing him, welcoming his own ravishment.

Spock yanks the doctor’s clothing off him without delicacy, keeping that articulate, sarcastic mouth stoppered with his own tongue, refusing to let McCoy bring reason to this moment. There is nothing of reason in Spock now, nothing of reason in this. He lets McCoy’s hands speak instead, sliding over his back. They settle at his waist; they urge him on. The doctor’s mind pulses with sensation, with desire.

Spock answers the human’s need with his own; he frees himself and lifts the doctor’s hips and swallows the cry of pain as he presses inside. But he is slick where McCoy is not, and they soon move freely together, that lithe, slim form wicked in its writhing. Now the sounds are cries, and McCoy does not have to be muzzled; he cannot remember words. 

Neither can Spock, biting kisses along the doctor’s neck, savoring the sharp angles of his collarbones, pressing a thumb against the taut little peak of a nipple, moving down to curl his fingers around the doctor’s penis, which leaps in his hand, echoing McCoy’s cry of abandon. 

McCoy comes in slippery, translucent ropes; Spock glances down to see them striping the doctor’s flat belly, his own hips still moving in a merciless, vicious rhythm. McCoy’s eyes are screwed shut; his mouth is open, red and wet.

Spock closes it again with a punishing kiss, not wanting to hear what McCoy has to say. He ruts into McCoy savagely, glorying in the abandon of taking, of having. Having is not always as satisfactory as wanting, but in this moment it is everything. It is the only thing.

Spock comes, driving as deep as he can and seizing there, his hands bruising McCoy, his teeth sinking at the join of McCoy’s neck and shoulder. McCoy cries out, arching with protest, then subsides, trembling, as Spock releases the bite and kisses him again, smearing the bright crimson flower of his blood between their mouths.

McCoy is still weak from his ordeal in the cold; he succumbs swiftly to his weariness and to the languor of orgasm. He falls asleep beneath Spock, his hands curled loosely at the small of Spock’s back. His mouth is open, his breath a slow, warm tide between his bruised lips. There is no more resistance, no more fight in him. He is very warm, though the air is cold.

Spock licks slowly at the marks of his own teeth, cleaning away a smear of blood, making McCoy whimper softly. He looks down along the spare, angular body he has claimed by violence in his need. He does not understand why he allowed himself to do what he has done; he does not know what he will say when those blue eyes open again, when they accuse him. 

Their accusation, their anger, will be just.

At the moment, their bodies still glued together with the evidence of their joining, Spock cannot bring himself to pull away and face his guilt. 

He closes his eyes and dreads waking.


	13. Antiviral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: TOS or AOS (I was picturing TOS but it could work for either); McSpirk. Fluff.

Leonard was so tired the slide under the microscope wavered in front of his eyes; he had to blink twice, then rub his eyelids for a long moment before he could focus.

Everywhere in the viewing field, blue-stained viral cells withered and writhed as he looked, succumbing to the antiviral he had created. The nightmare was over.

“Christine!” He barked. “Have Geoff test this formula on one of our patients planetside. Monitor him for six hours, and if there aren’t any side effects by then, have the lab start turning it out by the fifty-gallon drum and start a planetwide inoculation!” He tossed her the padd, which she caught deftly, already hustling for the door.

McCoy leaned back with a sigh, stretching cramped neck and back muscles. The fucking virus wouldn’t kill anymore Basdian children, not on his watch. 

He stood up slowly, blinking at the chrono on his desk. Nearly 23:00. What day was it? When had he last slept? When had he eaten? He had a half-drunk, cold cup of coffee at his elbow, but that was all he could’ve pointed to as evidence of personal survival efforts. The insides of his eyelids felt like he’d covered them with sand. 

He’d just report to Jim and then toddle off to bed for maybe the next 48 hours or so. 

Picking up his mug and setting it by the autoclave, he began to meander his way up toward the residential section of the saucer, mumbling distracted hellos at any crewmen friendly enough to greet him. Jim hated to see innocent people die; he’d be relieved to hear the Basdians’ suffering was at an end.

He thumbed the call button by Jim’s door; he was probably asleep, but he’d sleep easier for McCoy’s report. No need to make him climb out of bed to answer the door; McCoy could let himself in. He let his finger remain on the button, which read his thumbprint and opened the door, responding to his personal medical override. 

Leonard stepped in, the lights coming up. “Jim! I finally got that pesky antiviral whipped; we’ll be treating patients by morning—” he began, then trailed away in dismay.

Not one but two heads poked up from Jim’s bed, sleep-tousled and blinking. McCoy’s eyes went wide at the sight, he backpedaled, bumping into the wall.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Jim,” he managed before the identity of the second head struck him like a kick to the solar plexus. “I, uh, oh _fuck_!” It was Spock; it was _Spock_ in _Jim’s bed,_ and Leonard had walked in on them; he’d fucking _walked in on_ his two best friends sleeping together and he hadn’t had _any fucking idea…!_

“Don’t sweat it, Bones.” Jim was getting up, perfectly composed if still a little sleepy; he was stark naked except for the love bites (oh holy shit those were definitely love bites) decorating his shoulders and his throat. He pulled a robe off its hook and wrapped it around himself. “Come on into the lounge and tell me about it.” 

Spock lay half-revealed by the rumpled blanket; after a moment he sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. McCoy just stood gaping as Jim caught his elbow and cordially steered him to a seat in the lounge—but not before Spock stood up, as naked as Jim, and casually retreated to the head. Unhurried. Placid. _Stark, fucking naked._

Oh my god, this meant _Jim and Spock were having sex. **Together.**_

“Damn it, Jim, I didn’t mean to… I never saw the two of you… I’ll just get the fuck out—” McCoy babbled, wretched, not sure what to feel. Jealous, mainly—and he couldn’t for the life of him have said who he was more jealous of. 

“Shut up and sit down before you fall down.” Jim grinned at him. “We’re all adults here; you had urgent news. Report, doctor.”

The command tone worked, straightening McCoy’s spine, so he sat as commanded and delivered his report on the composition and projected efficacy of the antiviral. 

Spock emerged from the bathroom—astonishing McCoy all over again that he had not merely chosen to flee into his own quarters—and went to the replicator. He had put on a robe of his own, loosely belted shut, and brought three steaming mugs to the table: tea for himself and Jim and decaf coffee with a shot of whiskey for Leonard. 

Leonard clutched it gratefully, averting his eyes from Spock’s sleep-rumpled head. “Thank you,” he mumbled. God, he’d never be able to scour his mind clear of the memory of Spock rising from Jim’s bed, naked and tousled and lazy with sleep. _Holy fuck._

He blew on the coffee, then took a sip, savoring the twin burn of the hot liquid and the strong alcohol coursing down his throat. 

“You have not slept in three days, doctor,” Spock chided. “Nor have you eaten. Your color is bad.”

McCoy would have bristled, but Spock was right: fatigue was setting in now that the adrenaline of his discovery was passing. The hot glow of Irish coffee in his belly sent tendrils of relaxation through him, and he wavered, the mug chattering slightly against the table, as tiredness surged dizzily through his brain. 

“Finish your coffee,” Jim said gently, taking a swallow of his own drink. 

“The damn kids were dying. You know that.” McCoy took another swallow, and another. “But we’ll save the rest of them, see if we don’t.” He closed his eyes to rest them and leaned against the back of the chair, exhaling slowly—a sigh that felt like it would never end. 

Spock took the mug from him—he thought it was Spock, but it might have been Jim.

“Come on, Bones.” Jim’s voice stirred him; Jim’s arm was warm and strong around his waist. “He’s not gonna make it far like this.”

Spock’s voice was a low murmur. “He does not have to, if you do not wish him to.”

McCoy couldn’t parse Spock’s meaning, grumbling a little; he took a few tottering steps, then felt a flat surface under his bottom. Jim peeled off his shirt and his boots; he’d done this before, when Leonard was drunk.

“I’m not drunk,” he complained, hearing the whine in his own voice, but unable to do anything to amend it.

“Of course you aren’t.” Jim’s voice soothed him, and Jim put his legs up, tugging his trousers away, leaving him in his boxers and tee shirt. Then he laid Leonard down and the last thing he could remember was feeling a warm, soft pillow settle under his cheek.

He woke in darkness, lapped in warmth—the warmth of bodies. He blinked himself awake, his thoughts still slurred with sleep. Someone behind him, arms around his waist. Someone in front of him, arms around his neck. 

He froze, panicked, and waited for memory to return, but the last thing he could recall was Jim. He’d gone to make his report; he’d found Jim and Spock together, he’d—

Jim.

And _Spock._

Leonard went tense. He held his breath without meaning to; now that his brain was tracking again it was obvious. One warm, strong body lay in front of him, heartbeat slow and strong against his own—and one hot, lean body pressed behind him, heartbeat quick and light, strongest just over his kidney. He closed his eyes and lay very, very still, his heart racing until he thought it would match Spock’s for speed.

“You’re panicking,” Jim said calmly, nuzzling a kiss against his forehead. “Don’t.”

Lips brushed against McCoy’s shoulder, hot and very soft; feeling them, he let himself relax. 

If this was a dream, he would take all of it he could.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hazards of Cookies (TOS, G - written for Day 2 of the 12 Days of Spones event, 2016)

Jim hid out in his room upstairs on the excuse that he was wrapping presents-- but it was really not that. Not that at all. He was hiding out to escape the impending cataclysm in the kitchen, where Bones and Spock were baking. If they were gonna make a cake, things wouldn’t be too bad. Pie was a disaster. And cookies--

He opened the door just a crack and peered out, wary.

“DAMMIT, SPOCK!”

Yeah. It was definitely cookies.

Jim wished he’d managed to spike his cup of eggnog before he fled for his life. He couldn’t hear anything but Bones yelling, but that was enough. 

“I know that’s extra butter!”

“BECAUSE I’M PUTTING IN EXTRA DRY INGREDIENTS, Spock. You need to balance--”

“WHO’S MADE THESE DAMN THINGS FOR DECADES, ANYWAY?”

“No don’t just dump that baking soda in there; DON’T JUST DUMP IT IN, NO--”

That seemed to presage an uncomfortable truce, at least for a time. Maybe the perilous measuring phase had finished. Jim crept out, hoping the worst was over, and sneaked into the living room to put the packages he’d wrapped under their tree. Spock’s strength made light work of the stirring and that always improved Bones’s mood a little.

At least until--

“That’s not enough.”

“Doctor, the package says--”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT THE PACKAGE SAYS!” Bones was in full cry, and Jim nearly knocked ornaments off the tree as he straightened up, wincing.

“The package clearly says this recipe will produce 48 cookies. At the rate you are consuming the dough, you will produce roughly 18.” 

“Yeah, 48 cookies, if you want to spend your time measuring out the dough in teaspoons and bake twenty trays instead of four.” Bones lowered his voice. “Look, get that scale over here. We’ll weigh the damn dough, you pointy-eared menace, then you can see just how tiny they’re gonna be if you make 48.” 

Various clanking and measuring sounds ensued, with minor arguments involving the possible weight of the bowl and whether or not it was practical to remove the dough from it prior to weighing, a scientific necessity Bones vociferously resisted. Jim was on the point of sneaking away again when Bones spoke up. “See what I mean? You can fit a lot of those on a tray, but we’d still waste more power to the oven making ‘em that way. Also, Jim will eat about twice as many as he should if they’re so small. If I make them a reasonable size I can get away with only letting him take one.”

“I bow to your superior logic.”

That was the one thing guaranteed to return peace to the household, so Kirk sighed in relief and sneaked in to refill his mug. With plain milk, this time, anticipating the end of the oven cycle.

“Look at that. The vultures have arrived to pick the carcass,” Bones folded his arms. He was pristine in a turtleneck and slacks, but Spock had a smear of flour on his apron. “As usual, just in time to skip doing any of the work.” He scowled. “Anyway, you ought to wait for the next batch. Spock dumped the soda in without mashing the lumps out first.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine, Bones.” Kirk winked at Spock, and McCoy brandished his spatula. 

“Outta the way, or you’ll get burned!”

Spock poured two more mugs of milk and before long, they were all gathered at the table eating chocolate chip cookies, still so warm from the oven the cookies crumbled when they picked them up.

“Nobody bakes like the two of you,” Jim said with his mouth full. 

“Thank God for that,” Bones muttered, but when he looked at Spock, he was smiling.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sleepymccoy asked for Hurt!Bones and out of his depth Spock trying to keep him conscious/stop the bleeding/whatever
> 
> (Scenario set in the TOS universe; warning for angst, blood, injury)

*****

“Spock to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise. Requesting emergency beam-out.” Spock operates the communicator one-handed; the other hand is latched to McCoy’s shoulder, trying to keep his life from leaking out.

McCoy’s mind is beginning to wander. He remembers when Spock was blind. He’d complained McCoy was the first thing he’d seen when he regained his sight. How ironic it is that now Spock is the last thing McCoy will ever see.

“I am not,” Spock said. He’s covered with crimson from neck to waist; the bastards must’ve managed to hit an artery. “You will survive to see many things, and to torment me for failing to appreciate them as you do.”

McCoy smiles at him. “I don’t mind if you’re the last thing. Not as much as you would.” He isn’t sure how much comes out of his mouth and how much is in his mind, but he knows Spock hears him. He can feel Spock’s hands. One of them hurts him as it presses at his shoulder. The other touches his face, one thumb beneath his lips. One fingertip rests on his cheekbone, others press against his temple.

McCoy feels cold, and he knows what that means. He can see the pain in Spock’s eyes, though, and it makes him feel soft and gentle inside. “It’s been fun, Spock. I liked fighting with you. There are things I’d have liked to do with you more, but the fighting was good.”

“It was not,” Spock says, and McCoy knows what he’s doing. A last argument for old times’ sake.

He laughs a little; it hurts. “Yes it was.” He blinks and time passes; he’s not sure how much. He’s very cold, and Spock has a spatter of red on his face; his cheek stings as if he’s been slapped. He can’t feel his hands or feet.

“Stay conscious. A shuttle is coming.” 

“I wish I’d been right,” McCoy thinks at him, too tired and muzzy to open his mouth. “That you didn’t feel.” 

Spock’s eyes close for a moment, covering his pain.

“But I’m flattered you seem to feel so much for me.” McCoy thinks back to the church services he attended as a kid. “Tell my sister to play some rock and roll at the service. No hymns.” He hears voices, feels pressure—maybe it’s hands. He’s jostled; it hurts, but the pain is distant, fading. He thinks vaguely that he should say goodbye.

“Stay with me, Leonard.” His name is the last word he hears, spoken in Spock’s dark, rich voice, and as darkness closes over him, he knows he’s smiling. 

When the light seeps back in again, surprising him, McCoy opens his eyes. This time Spock is the one who’s smiling. McCoy blinks at him; Spock is pristine and unruffled, in pure science blue. The corners of his mouth are very slightly lifted, but it’s definitely a smile. 

“I am sure it is an imposition that I am the first thing you should see,” Spock says.

McCoy scoffs at him, more of a chuckle, really. “You’ll do, Spock.” His arms and legs are warm now. “You’ll do.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> darkwingdukat asked: Spock accidentally eats some chocolate-like food and gets drunk; McCoy takes care of him until he sobers up (and is very very amused)
> 
> (Set in AOS universe, silliness, drunkenness)

Jim’s too busy flirting with the premier and his wife to notice when Spock starts acting loopy. 

Of course, McCoy does. He makes it a habit to study Spock– for reasons of his own. If he’s not gathering ammunition for their next argument, then… well, at least Spock’s entertaining. More entertaining than a banquet room full of diplomats, anyway, even though half of them are eyeing one another’s wives on the sly. Except for Jim: he’s apparently going to go for the threesome.

McCoy’s eyes are drawn back to Spock as he sets his glass down, the stem of the delicate flute chattering against the rim of his plate. His eyes aren’t focused or dilated properly, and now he’s showing signs of impairment to his motor coordination. 

To coin a word…? _Fascinating._

McCoy palms his tricorder under the table and scans the beverage, the soft hum covered by the buzz of polite conversation. Flavonoids, theobromides, complex sugars…. he chuckles a little to himself. It hadn’t showed up as toxic on any of the scans Chapel did on the banquet before giving the go-ahead for the crew to consume it, but the stuff might as well be made from concentrated dark chocolate.

McCoy keeps quiet as he considers the relative merits of letting things go on as they are and of spiriting Spock away so that the ensuing show won’t be public. Maybe he’d better haul Spock away; if he doesn’t, the failure to adequately pre-check for problem ingredients will fall right on his own shoulders, and he’ll be held responsible for any… diplomatic incidents.

Right on cue, Spock picks up his spoon and carefully settles a berry in its bowl. McCoy can tell he’s calculating trajectories, and doesn’t have to look very hard before he spots the inviting gap displayed in the midst of the premiere’s wife’s decolletage.

McCoy tries not to cackle. Oh, yeah. This is gonna give him blackmail material that’ll last for _years._

“Mr. Spock, I need your assistance with an experiment,” he drawls, standing up. “Terribly sorry to run out like this, but time is a critical factor.”

Spock puts down the spoon with reluctance when Kirk and the others wave him away cordially; McCoy goes to Spock, who appears to be resistant, and manages to grip his upper arm, heaving him out of his chair. “C’mon.” He can’t keep from grinning.

Spock obeys, rather more clumsily than usual. “I was busy,” he says, his tone distinctly petulant, and Kirk raises a brow at McCoy, who gives him a sly little smirk, too small for the diplomats to notice. 

He’ll explain later.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hesitantbabelien asked:  
> hi!! if you're still taking requests can you do something domestic w either spones or mcspirk? thank u!! (´ ꒳ ` ✿)
> 
> (McSpirk, AOS, rated T)

“Doctor?” Spock blinked awake– not that he was napping; far from it. He had only closed his eyes to rest them as he sat basking in the sunlight streaming through the picture window. 

“Red alert, Spock.” McCoy was grinning like- as he might have said himself– a possum. Though Spock was still not clear on why the creature’s taxonomic designation was so frequently abbreviated or why one should grin as manically as McCoy was right now. 

“What is Jim doing?” Spock was gratified to recognize their personal code for a sex emergency.

“He’s dusting.”

“That will aggravate his allergies.” Spock blinked, surprised.

“Not for long it won’t.” Leonard grinned even wider. “He dressed up.”

“He did?”

“In the Little French Maid outfit. It was the only thing that went with the feather duster.”

Spock considered this for a moment. “That is the brief black dress with the white apron and short ruffled skirt that you purchased as a joke?”

“It is. And there were sheer black silk stockings. With garters.” McCoy leaned in to whisper, confidential. “He depilated his legs before he put them on, Spock.”

“Where is he?” This was, indeed, a red alert of the most urgent nature.

“He’s dusting your little sculptures.” McCoy paused. “I saw him. He was bending over. Very carefully. He was getting every speck of dust off them, I’m sure.”

“That is most alarming. I will intervene at once.” Spock rose with unseemly haste.

McCoy grinned. “Right behind you.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> darkwingdukat asked: Spones, body-swap
> 
> (AOS, Spones, rated M)

Leonard was getting frustrated. More than frustrated really. He was absolutely pissed off. He glared down along the hairy chest and belly of the unfamiliar body in which he found himself lodged. “What the hell is the point of all this,” he muttered (and didn’t that just sound odd? His own accent in Spock’s voice. Unnerving is what it was), “if I can’t even find out what he’s packing?”

Spock’s penis remained resolutely hidden inside the sheath that contained it, refusing to do so much as tingle no matter what he tried. Porn, self-manipulation, naughty thoughts… nothing worked! 

Well, nothing except for pissing. He could do that every now and then– and damned inconvenient it was to have to wait until it was fully primed, then not to be able to direct the stream anywhere he wanted!

“I swear to God, the next time we’re on a winter planet I’m gonna challenge him and Jim to a ‘write your name in the snow’ contest and then watch to see how he manages,” Bones growled. 

It made things all the worse to know that Spock could abuse his, Leonard’s, body as much as he liked; it was all too ready to stand up and take notice whenever the occasion presented itself (and plenty of times when it wasn’t at all appropriate). 

“I should get even with him for this and get a tattoo,” Leonard grumbled. “A fucking teddy bear. Or something with Hello Kitty. Somewhere he won’t be able to hide it. ” No, that wouldn’t do. Spock liked cats way too much.

“It requires a mind-meld to achieve what you are attempting.” His own voice, far too precise and prissy, startled him so badly he nearly jumped through the ceiling. Spock stood so straight it made McCoy’s virtual back ache just to see it. 

“Dammit.” It was a matter of purely academic interest to discover that Vulcans could, in fact, blush.

“Since it may be possible to transfer our respective minds back into the proper receptacle via a meld,” Spock said, stepping forward, “then perhaps we may kill two birds with one stone.”

That was the best idea Leonard had heard all day.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> onemonthonefanfic asked: spones idea: country doctor au
> 
> This could be either AOS or TOS and is rated G for everyone. The idea given would have to be very long to be fully realized, and I have so many long series going.... so here's a snippet. You can imagine for yourself how it might go. In my mind, it's set sometime between 2000-2020.

Later, he blames his truck. It’s an ancient 1977 Ford and half the time it runs on good old-fashioned prayer. It takes him about five minutes to coax the ignition into firing, and of course that sets up the timing so that he’s in exactly the right place for the man to come staggering out in front of him and collapse on the highway.

Leonard nearly wipes out trying to get stopped without hitting the guy; he leaves a wild scrawl of rubber on the tarmac and nearly flips over. But he doesn’t feel the tires thump over anything, and when he jumps out the taillights illumine a body lying in the road. The blood on his face looks almost black and at first Leonard thinks it’s the red from the lights but when he wrestles the guy into the cab, he knows better.

It’s not red blood. It’s green. And the man’s ears aren’t right; neither are his eyebrows. His eyes blink open, and they at least look human– rich dark brown, but there is no sign of pain or feeling on his face.

This is either a government experiment or he’s found a fucking alien from outer space. He doesn’t know which, but these are bad, dangerous times and if this is a government experiment, he’s probably gonna die because he knows about it. And if it’s an alien– the last thing the guy needs is for the government to get their claws on him. They’ll probably cut him open just to try to figure out what makes him tick.

Jesus Christ, he doesn’t even know how to help this guy. He’s obviously hurt; his pulse is so fast he ought to be stroking out, but he just lies there, deathly still, absolutely calm, and blinks up at Leonard– and is that a fucking nictitating membrane? Holy shit, it is. 

“Let me get you back to my office,” he mutters. He doesn’t even know if the alien understands, but it sits quietly in his truck. 

“I’m Leonard. Leonard McCoy,” he says quietly. “I don’t even know what you are, but I’ll… do whatever I can to help you. I can at least clean up those cuts and disinfect them.”

The alien isn’t afraid, and somehow, neither is Leonard– even though he’s seen _Aliens_. “Just don’t lay your eggs in my esophagus, okay?”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirror Mirror aftermath (AOS AU, Spock/McCoy, rated M for forced mental contact, forced bonding)

The landing party materializes, and Spock knows at once from the look on Kirk’s face: they’re his own crew, his friends. Uhura steps forward, obviously meaning to embrace him in a display of relief at their safe return; doubtless his counterpart was highly unsatisfactory. But he cannot spare the time to welcome her, for McCoy is collapsing where he stands, eyes rolling back in his head.

Spock steps forward, catching him, and perceives the trap half a heartbeat too late. McCoy’s mind is a black hole of whirling compulsion, dragging Spock in. Spock gives a hoarse cry, unable to interpret all he perceives in the split second before he drops the doctor, who sags to the deck, unresponsive.

Kirk is close behind Spock, kneeling at McCoy’s side; he obviously does not perceive the same psychic compulsion Spock has just narrowly escaped.

Spock staggers back a half-step. “What did he do?” He demands, hoarse. “The other Spock. What did he do to the doctor?” His hands hang loose; his fingers tingle and ache with the need to return to McCoy, to gather him up and hold him close. 

Uhura’s hand falls on Spock’s arm, and he barely stops himself from shaking her off; his eyes are fixed on McCoy. He thinks he is beginning to understand as the initial shock settles. McCoy is a magnet, drawing him forward; his hands ache for the warm skin of McCoy’s face and the stubble of his jaw. Leonard’s mind is a siren song, and Spock has only Uhura to tie him to the mast.

Regrettably, she is an insufficient deterrent in the face of this call.

He has guessed this potential since the moment he and McCoy first spoke; he has been sure of it since they first touched. The other Spock has seen it, and he has set it in motion, indifferent to the consequences.

There will be no explaining any of it satisfactorily to Nyota, no matter how long Spock tries or what words he chooses, and Leonard has only a limited time before madness sets in.

Spock goes to his knees beside the doctor. Leonard’s eyes open and gaze into his, unfocused but still beautiful, so large and wide, green and brown irises fixing on his. Leonard’s hand stirs and his lips part in a moan. His hand slides across the platform toward Spock’s knee.

Kirk’s eyes narrow, fixing on Spock. “Help him,” he says. It’s more than a request, if less than an order. Spock knows he is the only one who could mend this, even if they had a Vulcan mind healer aboard. It is a cruel gift they have been given, one the other Spock no doubt found amusing to contemplate.

“Nyota, I am sorry,” Spock says softly, and before she can react he gives in, letting the black hole drag him over the event horizon.

His hands curve over Leonard’s face, and the act completes them. Leonard and Spock cry out in unison as their minds snap together, the chaotic tendrils of the unfulfilled bond twining as if there was never a separation between them: absolute and perfect. 

“He saw the likeness of our minds,” Spock murmurs. “And in his determination to have the knowledge he required, he forced a deep meld, not caring that he began a bonding, leaving me no choice but to complete it. I am sorry.” He does not know if he is speaking to Leonard or to Nyota. There will be no more efforts to persuade her to decide that they should not be together; they are together no longer.

Leonard’s eyes are polished cabochons of rich agate, rich chocolate brown and emerald green; his lips part in a soft exhalation that sounds like “oh.” He will be angry later. Very angry, Spock knows, and bitterly defensive, and deeply afraid. Spock too is wary of the future, but he has committed them to this, the best of the available alternatives—only this will prevent Leonard’s vulnerable human mind from succumbing to the madness and slow, agonizing dissolution of a half-completed marriage bond.

The thought that he might have chosen to allow that to happen is one Spock could never entertain, no matter the cost of his chosen course.

“Take him to sickbay,” Kirk orders the security guards, though there is no longer a need for medical intervention. It would be pointless, and would only delay what is necessary.

“No,” Spock disagrees. He lifts McCoy in his arms; every small bit of contact sings between them, and Leonard nestles against him instinctively. “I will care for him.”

Leonard’s hands link behind Spock’s neck and he tucks his face against Spock’s throat, instinctive, knowing only that it eases the ache and makes him feel safer. “Spock,” he mumbles. “What’s happening?” He verbalizes the overwhelming thought of everyone in the room.

Spock can feel Uhura’s eyes boring into him; she deserves a full explanation and more apologies than he can ever articulate, but in the moment, Leonard’s need is greater. 

“The other Spock damaged your mind,” he says quietly. “I am repairing it.”

“Okay.” Leonard settles against him, the depth of his trust staggering to Spock. Uhura, at least, would be justified in judging him undeserving of it.

“It must be done quickly,” he says in order to excuse himself, and carries Leonard out, Kirk and Nyota trailing in their wake, uncertain they are wanted. He leaves them no doubt when he closes the door of his quarters and abandons them in the hall.

“I can hear you thinking.” Leonard’s lips stir against his throat. “Why’s that?” 

“Our minds are joined.” He does not say they will never be separate again, not completely; he senses Leonard already knows. “I have avoided melding with you in the past because I understood this might happen and neither of us was ready. My counterpart did not share my restraint.” He puts Leonard down upon his bed and settles at his side. The contact between them is a necessary perfection. They will argue later.

“This is gonna be impossible to explain.” Leonard’s eyes blink, clear as crystal. Spock is not sure whether the words were silent or whether Leonard vocalized them aloud. Leonard appears to comprehend. It is a mercy that he understands; Spock is not sure he could have found adequate words to express it. Leonard’s hands stir, palms spreading on his back, drawing him closer. 

They have never spoken openly of the attraction, of the affection he and Leonard feel for one another; they have covered it with a pretense of dislike, with belligerent words.

Now they no longer have a need to hide behind clumsy speeches. 

“Yes,” Spock agrees. “It will.”

As their lips finally touch, he cannot care.


	21. Early Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, AOS, Spock/Kirk/McCoy friendship fic set not long after the 2009 reboot

Spock puts a PADD in front of Jim Kirk with his daily reports and business on it. As is becoming their routine since Jim assumed command of the Enterprise, they go through the first officer's report together at the conclusion of each alpha shift. 

It's all business as usual-- little glitches with the ship and personnel matters, nothing very urgent, until Jim's scrolling finger comes to rest on an item about 2/3 of the way down. It's a lengthy item with plenty of documentation appended. He sighs and taps to open it.

Leonard McCoy: request official reprimand for persistent insubordinate and disorderly behavior; possible demotion pending failure to amend. Justification:

  * Racial slurs directed toward a superior officer (to wit, "hobgoblin," "green-blooded," "cold-blooded," "emotionless son of a bitch," and others, c. f. appended incident reports) 
  * Open insubordination (to wit, refusing the direct order to suspend treatment of injury to one crewmember and prioritize treatment of another with more severe injuries) 
  * Fomenting general insubordination (to wit, inciting bridge crew members to stand down five minutes early, "just don't let the pointy-eared bastard catch you") 
  * Creating a hostile shipboard environment (to wit, approaching the first officer repeatedly during leisure hours with comments such as "Here comes the party pooper. Who unclipped your leash?"; c. f. appended incident reports 
  * Creating a nuisance by placing traditionally significant symbols in unavoidable locations and insisting noncompliant cultures observe human rituals 



Jim pauses at that one, frowning. "Was that the mistletoe incident?"

"Indeed."

"He didn't mean for Chapel to see you under that stuff, you know. I think he expected me to be right behind you."

Spock merely stands squarely on both feet, staring at the opposite wall in a manner that reminds Jim of a moldy, ancient stuffed elk he'd once seen mounted on the wall of a hunting lodge.

  * Smuggling contraband substances on board the USS Enterprise with intention to consume (to wit, Saurian brandy, whiskey, peach brandy) 
  * Consumption of contraband substances (to wit, smuggled alcohol; c. f. appended incident reports) 



_"I_ drank some of that whiskey, you know."

Spock continues staring straight ahead; he has anticipated Kirk's objections to this particular agenda item. "Not having witnessed your consumption thereof, I am not in a position to file disciplinary proceedings at this time."

"Uh huh." Kirk shakes his head and keeps reading.

  * Collusion with ship's chief engineer to produce illegal home-brewed alcohol 
  * Consumption of illegal home-brewed alcohol 
  * Conspiracy to distribute illegal home-brewed alcohol 
  * Distribution of wrongfully concealed intoxicants 



Kirk sighs. "He apologized for not telling you there was cacao in the vegetarian enchiladas, Spock. He didn't know you'd be affected adversely by eating them."

Spock stares at a spot approximately two inches over the point of his left shoulder. Kirk taps the PADD again. "How many more infractions have you got listed here, anyway? Good God, Spock."

"I understand that Dr. McCoy is your friend. Nevertheless--"

"Look." Kirk groans and leans back in his chair, scrubbing his palm over his eyes. "It's tradition to sneak a little alcohol on board, and unofficial Starfleet policy is to turn a blind eye as long as nobody turns up drunk to their duty shifts or develops a problem. You and I both know it's the verbal stuff that has your drawers tied in a knot--"

"My underwear is not pertinent to my complaint even if it were in such a condition as you describe. It is not." If Spock gets any stiffer, you could use him for a flagpole.

"He likes you."

Spock raises a brow.

"No, seriously. He likes you. He told me so the first time he laid eyes on you. ...He doesn't give people shit unless he likes them. Look. Does he give me shit?"

"I have never seen the doctor make such an unpleasant gift selection--"

"For fucksake, Spock, stop being so damn literal. Is Bones respectful to me? If I look at him and say 'jump,' does he say 'Yes sir, how high would you like me to jump, captain?' Or does he say 'Damn it, Jim, you're out of your damn mind! I'm not jumping anywhere without a good reason!'?"

Spock considers. "The latter, but that merely represents the breadth of the problem."

"No, it doesn't. I don't know how to explain. Does Bones do a good job? Does he treat medical conditions and injuries promptly and efficiently?"

"Quite acceptably so, other than the noted--"

"That was when you'd cut your hand and nearly severed a tendon and Jacobsen came in with a first degree burn on his arm, wasn't it. And McCoy refused to leave you while Chapel treated him. Quite competently, from the reports I've had."

Spock shuffles his feet slightly, indicating mild embarrassment. "That is as may be."

"No, that's the way things are. I'd like you to sit on this report for a week, Spock, and watch McCoy. Pay attention to who he interacts with and how. Pay particular attention to his interactions with his friends-- with me, with Sulu, with Scotty. And be sure to watch how he interacts with Lieutenant Commander Martinez from security, too. Now there's a guy he _really_ doesn't like."

Kirk taps his fingers together, pleased with his solution. "You come to me with a report on that after seven days, Spock, and I'll discuss him with you again." Kirk smiles at him, satisfied. "And if, at that time, you can tell me that McCoy is unprofessional in discharging medical duties, and that he's stiff and formal and cool and professional with the people he likes, the way you are, and snappy as hell with the ones he doesn't like? Then I'll file that report with bells on and personally deliver whatever disciplinary action Starfleet sees fit to assign him. He'll never call you a 'pointy-eared bastard' again. I'll see to it. But if you report to me he's sharp as hell with the people he likes and cold and indifferent with the ones he doesn't?" Kirk gives Spock a sly wink. "Then maybe you'll withdraw that complaint of your own volition."

Spock sighs visibly; Kirk knows he can already predict the outcome of his observations. 

"Give it right back to him, that's my advice. Don't let him intimidate you. It'll be a good way for both of you to blow off steam." Kirk gentles his expression and leans forward again. "Bones expects the people he likes to hurt him, Spock. Being sharp with them isn't an attack at all. It's self-defense."

He sees Spock absorb that and consider it; some of the tension flows out of the Vulcan's perfectly straight spine. Kirk smiles a little. He initials all the items except that one and hands the PADD back to Spock.

The door chimes and McCoy comes in, raising a brow at the tableau. "You two've been cooped up in here for half an hour. I'm betting some poor bastard's about to catch it right in the neck," he says to Jim. "It's me, isn't it." He chuckles and half-sits on the corner of Jim's desk. "You look as sour as a little kid sucking on a lemon and calling it candy, Spock." 

Behind McCoy, Jim spreads his hands innocently at Spock; unaware, McCoy persists. "You two were gonna come down to the rec room and bore me to tears playing a game of chess at me while I do some people-watching. Well? Gonna stand me up?"

"Not a chance, Bones." Kirk stands up, stretching. 

"I am prepared to adjourn to the recreation room," Spock says, and takes a deep breath. "To be bored by chess is a sure sign of inferior strategic capacity, doctor."

McCoy's eyes pop open wide and he glares at Spock with perfect outrage. "Is that so? Well, I'll have you know I'd kick your scrawny alien ass at Scrabble, Spock, and that's a fact."

"You are welcome to try, doctor."

"You're on." McCoy is actually rubbing his hands and cackling as he walks out. 

Spock pauses at the door, glancing back at Kirk and raising one perfectly groomed brow. 

"He's a shark at Scrabble, Spock." Kirk can't keep from grinning. It doesn't even matter who wins; all of a sudden, he's looking forward to this.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny tiny TOS McSpirk vignette, complete with arguments and masturbation. Rated M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amahhi asked for prompt 135: Enough with the pillow talk, I'm tired.

“Enough with the pillow talk, I’m tired!” Kirk complained, flopping back on the bed. He’d been hoping for a nice, smoky make-out session with his two favorite officers, but it was literally true: Spock and McCoy would rather argue than fuck. 

Spock raised a brow at McCoy.

McCoy raised a brow at Spock.

“He’s an impatient sonofabitch, isn’t he?”

“Indeed.”

“We should make him wait.”

“If he must wait for you to achieve sufficient mastery of the methodology of logical debate to defeat me, he will never again be sexually satisfied.”

“Exactly what are you trying to imply, you green-blooded–”

Kirk groaned and reached down with his right hand. At least he could enjoy the view.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short slightly crackfic-ish segment with hints of McKirk and Spirk. AOS, General

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleepymccoy asked for: 95 (“You’re cute when you’re all worried.”), 50 (“You know you want it, sweetheart.”), 1 (“The skirt is supposed to be this short.”)

“The skirt is supposed to be this short,” Jim said, standing in front of his mirror and smoothing down his new unisex midi, turning to try to see over his own shoulder. “Does it show my underpants?”

“Your color-coordinated matching bloomers,” Bones said, reading from the ripped packaging. “Yes, it does.”

“You know you want it, sweetheart.” Kirk gave him a bawdy wink, and Bones rolled his eyes. 

“Back when I was about eleven and the person wearing them was a cheerleader, maybe.” He shook a warning finger at Jim. “You take _one step_ out of this room like that, half the crew is going to be rolling in the corridors giggling. The other half’s gonna be trying to figure out how to get inside those bloomers.”

“That’ll make up for the first half, then.” Kirk eyed his legs. “I should depilate, shouldn’t I. And get some boots with a little bit of heel, so I can show off my calves.”

“Oh my God.” Bones flopped back on the bed with a groan. “I always knew you were an exhibitionist, but I never had you pegged for a cross-dresser.” He flung his arm over his face. “You’re gonna fry Spock’s brain. I mean it. He’ll short right out. Never be the same again.”

“You’re cute when you’re all worried,” Jim said, rummaging in his closet for some boots with heels. “I’m just not sure which of us you’re worried about—Spock, or me.”

“I’m worried for _me,”_ Bones snapped. “Because after Spock hauls you off to… express his opinion… I’m stuck standing two steps closer to the top of the chain of command until he’s finished.”

“You’re just pissed you didn’t think of it first. We could get a midi for you too, you know.”

“I’m not shaving my legs for anybody. Especially not Spock.” McCoy snorted. “But I’ll follow you around all day with a tricorder and make a record of this for posterity.”

“You’re just an old fuddy-duddy,” Kirk said, coming up in triumph with a pair of three inch heels. “Nobody’s gonna care. There!” He exclaimed in triumph, and vanished into the bathroom to find a depilatory.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McSpirk, AOS, delayed gratification ficlet (rated Teen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t-solivagant asked for 9: “Quit it or I’ll bite.”

“Stop it, Jim.” McCoy tried to focus on the tedious job of labeling hyposprays, but his captain kept snuggling up against his back, both arms snaked around his waist, nbbling at his ear.

“So help me.” He screwed up the label he was writing for the umpty-fifth time; Kirk’s fingers had started trying to sneak under his waistband. “You’ve got more arms than a Rigellian sunstar with a conjoined twin!” He squirmed free and tried to put the desk between them, but Jim wasn’t the sort to give up easily.

“Quit it, or I’ll bite.” McCoy bared his teeth and snapped at Kirk’s wrist, not entirely in jest. 

Kirk yanked back his hand with a pout. “You’ve been labeling hyposprays for the last two hours!”

“I’m going to have to dose the entire crew to prevent the Vegan flu. Between different species, immunosuppressant variations, religious objections, and just plain old substance allergies, I can’t risk any of these doses going to the wrong person!”

Kirk sat back in McCoy’s chair and sighed. “How much longer?”

“Another half-hour.”

“That always means an hour and a half.”

“You could go get an early start with Spock and leave me alone. Maybe if you left me alone, it wouldn’t take three times as long to finish.”

“Spock will pout if I show up without you.”

McCoy rolled his eyes and reached for a fresh label, printing on it in careful capitals. “He’s a big boy.” 

“He likes that thing you do special for him.” Kirk waggled his eyebrows. “You know the thing.”

McCoy huffed. “You could do that for him, too, if you weren’t such a diva.”

“I like it when you do it to me, too. Nobody knows anatomy like you.”

“The two of you only want me for my medical expertise.”

“What can I say? Not everybody’s got the hands of a surgeon and the mouth of a–”

“Shut up, Jim!” McCoy hissed, glaring at the doorless opening in the wall; Chapel and M’Benga were out there, for Christ’s sake.

Kirk settled back in McCoy’s chair and put his feet up. “If you aren’t done in an hour, I’m calling Spock down. He’s more persuasive than I am.”

McCoy sighed. “I can’t rush this. If I make a mistake—”

“I know, Bones.” Jim relented, his eyes softening. “We can wait.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spones, AOS or TOS, Mature for masturbation, anatomical imagery, embarrassment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theanishimori asked for #14: “Take. It. Off.”

McCoy folded his arms and glared at Spock. “My orders come straight from Starfleet Command, and they aren’t negotiable. That Gangorean clap’s been spreading like wildfire, and most of the people who have it are too ashamed to report it until they’re half-dead. So everybody’s got to report for a short-arm inspection, and it’s your turn.”

“Doctor, I object most strenuously to this invasive and barbaric decree, and to your enforcement of this practice.” Spock stood before McCoy, clad in only his undershirt and trousers, visibly rebellious. “I assure you, I have had no opportunity to contract any such condition.”

“That’s what they all say. Anyway, it’s not my idea, Spock. It’s Admiral Nogura’s. So take. It. Off.” 

“Does the captain have to humiliate himself similarly?” Spock made no move to comply.

“He’s already on round two of the recommended antibiotic.” Strictly, McCoy wasn’t supposed to reveal that, but when he did, Spock’s resistance wilted. 

“….Very well.” He dropped his trousers.

“Milk it down and skin it back,” McCoy barked, brisk and professional, just as if he looked at Vulcan dicks all day every day. “I need to see it all.”

His mouth set in a hard, dissatisfied line, Spock looked away as he obeyed, his hand briskly efficient, teasing his thick, jade-green cock in a determined effort to get it to peek out of its sheath.

It wasn’t easy for him; apparently he had to be entirely erect for it to manifest as commanded.

McCoy swallowed hard, feeling himself blush crimson from the tip of his chin to the tops of his ears as Spock’s hand moved and the big, shining cock crept out, textured ridges on the shaft gleaming with slick, the broad glans too wide for Spock’s fingers to close around it. _Holy shit!_

McCoy kept his face expressionless with an effort. Damn, but Spock looked good enough to lick, just like an all-day lollipop from the Georgia state fair. 

He didn’t even know how the Gangorean clap would manifest in Vulcan physiology.

He just had to hope he’d recognize the symptoms if he saw them.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ST: AOS. Spock/McCoy (entirely imaginary and perhaps unreasonably idealized). Spock/Uhura (real but rather unreasonably unsatisfactory). Explicit. Written for a friend.

Spock has a dirty little secret.

He has a respectable number of them, actually—and now that Vulcan’s gone, maybe that’s not very practical. There aren’t so many Vulcans now to condemn him for who and what he is. All his teachers and all his tormentors, the bullies, the board that so condescendingly offered to tolerate his admission to the Vulcan Science Academy, all but a very tiny handful of the Vulcans he ever met or knew personally are dead. When Vulcan society rebuilds itself, it will metamorphose into something that bears relatively little resemblance to what has been lost.

But he remembers the Vulcans who rejected him, and their reasons-- and in some twisted way it feels right to honor the memory of the society he never quite fit into by still acknowledging its power over him.

Or maybe that’s not quite right. Maybe the dirtiness of this little secret comes from his own moral compass—the one that says he shouldn’t feel the way he does. Not the half-remembered voices of teachers long gone, or books half-unread.

The secret is all his own, and he has no choice but to own the shame of it, too, without regard to its source. His secret is this: he once gave himself voluntarily into bonds that now gall him; he wants nothing more than to be free.

*****

When Uhura is gone—when they’re on split shifts, and she’s on the bridge while he’s sleeping, when she isn’t in their bed with him—he doesn’t think of her. He shouldn’t touch himself, and even if he does, he shouldn’t think of anyone but the person he’s in a relationship with.

But he does touch himself, and he does think of someone else.

He thinks of a man. Of a male body: long and lean like Uhura, but pale-skinned, with a male organ, with hard muscle rather than soft breasts. 

He tries not to give his fantasy a face. That doesn’t matter, though. He knows the man’s identifying marks; he knows his height, his build, his scars. He knows the sound of the voice that would gasp in his ear. 

Spock looks at the ceiling so he will not see the picture in his mind; so that he will not experience the force of his own imagination so intensely. 

His body yields to the phantom of his own conjuring, though—he lies on his back, knees lifted, thighs spread. 

He imagines weight covering him—solid, strong, aggressive. He arches his back and lifts his hips, dreaming of feeling his lover push him right back down again. Sensation floods through his body, arousal burning sweet fire through him. 

It’s never this easy to bring him to this fever pitch outside his imagination; he isn’t sure why. Maybe he chose his partner too quickly, before he actually met the person who was best for him. Maybe he’s just too self-conscious to let himself go when someone’s actually there with him. Maybe feeling another person’s thoughts and feelings is a distraction from the pure pleasure he takes in solitary sessions. 

He doesn’t let himself wonder if being with a man—one particular man—would be this good for real.

Spock licks his lips, turning his head aside, and thinks of stubble scratching at his face, his throat. He thinks of a thick male organ pushing him open, taking him. He thinks of letting himself lie back for a change and experience the pleasure instead of being the one who always has to take meticulous care of his partner’s needs. 

He dreams of hot human skin burning under his palms, taut with thick layers of muscle. He dreams of teeth leaving bruises, fierce and tender. He dreams of whispered endearments, curses, words of love lipped against his sweating skin, then licked away only to be given back to him over and over again. He dreams of giving himself, abandoning control, throwing himself off the precipice and knowing he will be _caught._

He comes with a groan, keeping his teeth locked together to imprison the name that yearns inside his mouth.

He rises as soon as his trembling body is steady enough to stand and function. He wipes himself off, changes his bedding, restores the tidy surfaces of his life to their pristine and impeccable façade of perfection. 

He does not know how to shatter the façade; he does not know how to unmake the bed he has prepared for himself. He has tried before, many times; each time he soon finds himself entrapped anew, unsure how his final resolution has reversed itself. He is apparently unwilling to speak bluntly enough, to hurt Nyota enough, to discourage her permanently. 

He showers—real water, another secret his people would not have approved—and scrubs himself clean. He tries to pretend he is the proper Vulcan who would never indulge such a shameful fantasy, the good lover Nyota deserves.

He leaves his quarters, every hair in place, and when he sees Leonard in the corridor, he allows himself to be drawn into an argument. He watches Leonard’s face: his volatile passion, his enthusiasm, the cynicism that masks his pain, the intensity of his hazel eyes. They bicker comfortably. The topic is not important.

Spock’s secret remains his own.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic prompt: "I didn't know we were keeping track." (requested by darkwingdukat, Spones, AOS or TOS, Gen)

“Damn it, Spock. Leave it to you to get us stuck overnight on this godforsaken hellhole. You could at least try to be entertaining while we wait for rescue.”

“Dr. McCoy, you have now insulted me 2,874 times since first setting foot aboard the Enterprise.” Spock clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his head back, looking in vain for an incoming shuttlecraft. 

“I didn’t know we were keeping track,” McCoy muttered, flushing beet red. 

“You have made disparaging remarks a further 5,938 times,” Spock intoned. 

“Do you have evidence that’ll stand up in a court of law?”

“5,939,” Spock said. “Would you care to know how often you have complimented me?”

McCoy winced. “Lay it on me.”

“Sixteen times. Eleven of those were possibly intended as insults, but I chose to take them as compliments.”

“Well, that’s a pretty good number, if you don’t listen to it next to all the others.” McCoy rallied. “Would you like to know how many times you’ve complimented me?”

Spock very nearly frowned trying to remember; McCoy was sure of it. 

“Once. I made a bomb. You liked it.”

“It was a very good bomb,” Spock admitted. “However, I do not believe your tally is accurate.” 

“Of course you don’t.” McCoy couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe we should try giving one another less to complain about and more to compliment.”

“Perhaps so.” Spock sounded at least mildly conciliatory. McCoy was grateful they had something to focus on other than the raw, damp wind rustling the branches around them.

They eyed one another warily, like circling cats. 

“You go first.”

“I am waiting for you to do something worthy.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“As are you, doctor.”

“You do argue well,” Bones admitted.

“Indeed.” Spock looked smug.

“Hey! You were supposed to return the compliment, not agree with me!”

“You do sulk exceptionally well.”

“…That wasn’t a compliment, Spock.” McCoy rolled his eyes to the heavens and was rewarded with a faceful of rain.

“You are very warm,” Spock admitted, and nestled closer. 

“I’ll take that,” McCoy grumbled and slid an arm around Spock, protective, and tried not to blush.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McSpirk (Gen. Pre-slash, either AOS or TOS). Humor, strip poker. 
> 
> Amloveabledeathmo asked for: Strip poker. Highly illogical, how do you play? *excuses himself, comes back wearing all the clothes he could find/fit on his body*

It was proving particularly difficult to come up with a way to proposition a Vulcan. After some disagreement, Kirk and McCoy finally settled on a method.

“Jim’s bored with chess and I’m bored with poker,” McCoy told Spock that evening in the commissary. “So we thought we’d compromise tonight and play strip poker over brandy and chocolates. You’re welcome to join us if you’re so inclined.”

“That is highly illogical. …How do you play?” Spock inquired.

“Simple, Spock. Instead of betting money, we wager our clothes. The winner of the hand gets to keep all of his. Everyone else loses one item.”

“Fascinating.” Spock inclines his head. “Very well, I will meet you as agreed.”

*****

It wasn’t like the Vulcan to be late, but this time he was. Leonard and Jim waited for several minutes in the captain’s quarters, exchanging speculative glances. Had Spock chickened out? Would he refuse to participate after all?

Then the door chimed. 

“Come,” Jim said, and Spock waddled in looking as though he weighed approximately 350 kilos. Every item of clothing he wore strained at the seams, struggling to contain the many layers that hid beneath. Even his boots appeared to be stuffed like sausages. He had also added neckerchiefs, two knitted hats, and a variety of jewelry.

They stared at him for a long moment in search of an appropriate response. Finally McCoy broke the silence.

“Damn it, Spock, you’re missing the whole point of the game. We’re playing to lose,” he snapped.

“Indeed, doctor?” Spock raised a brow. “Then I am assured you will not be disappointed in the results of our game.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Jim said, trying so hard not to laugh he sounded like he was about to strangle. 

****

When it was all over but the crying, Bones was obliged to make the walk of shame back to his quarters wearing only a hand towel.

“Never again,” he commed Kirk. “There’s got to be a better way to get into that man’s pants.”

“Agreed. I’ll be out of quartermaster credits for the next two years.”

They were just going to have to try something else.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triumvirate, AOS or TOS, gen, painting class  
> Prompt by bewareofchris: (the triumvirate) take a painting class ( with real paint) who is surprisingly good, who gives up, and who ends up drunk.

“I can’t believe this guy. How much diazepam has he taken? Is his hair even real?” Bones hissed sideways at Jim as he jabbed his loaded paintbrush toward the video screen savagely. “Or is that an electrocuted tribble?!”

Sulu ignored them, but he turned up the volume of the broadcast substantially before returning to his own painting. Uhura shot them a dirty look and moved her easel closer to Scotty’s.

“I don’t find this relaxing at all.” Bones’s picture looked like something a cat had rolled on.

A long-furred cat.

“I find it highly illogical to suggest that trees are happy,” Spock said. He had already abandoned his brush and palette and was tapping away on a terminal, researching the painting instructor. “Apparently his hairstyle was first the result of a cosmetic procedure known as a permanent wave and later on became a wig, doctor.”

Kirk ignored them both, dabbing industriously away at his canvas, where a decidedly happy-looking set of trees was rapidly emerging from nowhere. Of course they were all stylized fir trees set in front of a snowy mountain lake. “And this little one over here needs a friend,” the captain muttered, adding yet another.

“That looks wery good, keptin,” Chekov said, scowling at his own mediocre effort. 

“The hell with this recreational bonding bullshit,” Bones muttered, jamming his paintbrush into a glass of solvent. “I’m going to go get a drink.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek AOS or TOS, gen, role switchup
> 
> adenil-umano suggested: What if Spock was the doctor and Bones was the physicist/first officer?

The new doctor is a real hard-ass. That’s all Commander McCoy hears from the minute the man sets foot aboard. He’s a Vulcan. He has strange ideas about diet and is absolutely merciless when it comes to appointment scheduling, diet cards for the replicator, exercise sessions, immunizations, and physical therapy. Pretty much everything, actually.

McCoy finishes his duty shift and goes to the mess– he’s plenty slim, and his own diet card is a sensible balance of lean proteins, green vegetables, and a small portion of complex carbohydrates, so he doesn’t see what all the fuss is about– only to find Captain Kirk staring miserably into what appears to be a dry kale-and-strawberry salad garnished with fennel, almonds, and oats. 

“Wow,” he says. His own salad is romaine lettuce, apples, and bits of avocado. It even has dressing on it: oil and flavored vinegar. Jim eyes it like it was made of pure steak. Compared to his joyless feast, it might as well be. “So I guess I’ll see you in the gym later?”

“Nogura’s punishing me,” Jim whispered. “I already tried to see if there was any other ship that maybe needed someone like this guy, and he came on the line personally and read me the riot act.”

McCoy winced. “Well, look on the bright side. You’ll be in tip-top shape for shore leave.”

“This fellow doesn’t think crews need much of that,” Jim muttered, and Bones whistled, some of his schadenfreude fading as he realized he was in the same boat with everyone else. 

He looked up as the room fell silent, watching the new doctor walk calmly in, requisition of one of his own noxious vegetarian recipes, and sit down alone to eat it. 

“Well,” he said philosophically. “At least he’s hot. I think I might even learn to like him.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek, AOS or TOS (probably more TOS). Mostly gen except for a dirty joke, Spones
> 
> lenardmccoy asked for: Spones, Spock is courting McCoy the Vulcan way. McCoy has no clue and thinks Spock is acting weirder than usual, what's up with that? (Bonus points if Jim and others know exactly what is going on and have a running bet on how long it'll take McCoy to figure it out.)

*****

“Damn it, Jim!” Bones exploded. “I can’t work with Spock breathing down my neck all the damn time, but every time I look up, he’s hanging around in sickbay or parked behind a scope in one of the labs. Can’t you keep him busy up on the bridge?”

“Sorry, Bones. He’s already discharged his required duties for the day. I can’t dictate what he does in his leisure time.” Kirk just grinned at him, scraping his spoon around the bottom of his ice cream sundae to get up the last of the chocolate flavored puddle there. 

“It doesn’t matter where I am or what time of day it is,” McCoy ranted. “If I go to a concert, he’s sitting in the next row. If I’m trying to eat– look. LOOK.” Sure enough, Spock was approaching, his tray in his hands. He sat down next to the doctor.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said evenly. “I am assured the broccoli cheese casserole is particularly satisfactory today.”

“We’re not finished with this conversation, Jim!” Bones shook his finger at the captain. He had every intention of figuring out what the hell was going on.

Jim just excused himself, giving Bones a sly wink. Everyone in the whole damn mess hall was staring at him and Spock, talking behind their hands; he was sure of it. There was no way this was normal.

McCoy bolted his food and fled, but Jim was nowhere to be found.

****

Even if the doctor hid out in his own quarters, Spock was sure to come and ask for the loan of a book, or to inquire his opinion about a colleague’s medical research, or to offer him some choice tidbit of scientific lore gleaned God-knows-where. 

“What the hell are you up to, Spock?” McCoy finally melted down when presented with Spock at his door one evening at nine PM. He blocked the portal in case Spock decided to invite himself inside, gesticulating wildly. “You’re sticking closer than a bad case of hemorrhoids.”

“A most curious choice of analogies, doctor.” He pronounced it oddly, altering the vowels and the stress of the first two syllables.

From another man that might have been a joke– ANAL-ogies– but McCoy couldn’t read a damned thing on Spock’s face. He scowled at Scotty, who was taking an unnecessarily long time over the control panel of his door. 

“Gimme the article and go to bed, then, if you won’t come clean,” McCoy ordered, and retreated irritably.

He was starting to get fed up. No, he wasn’t. He was well past fed up and right on into livid. 

Spock hadn’t even weaseled his way out of a routine checkup or a followup exam. If he complained to Jim, all he got was teasing and incredulity.

*****

Maybe he smelled bad or something. Or maybe it was just Spock’s oppressive influence. Whatever it was, McCoy couldn’t seem to get anybody to give him so much as a flirtatious glance anymore. Not aboard ship– not that it would’ve been a very good idea to date a subordinate; he’d learned better when he tried that with Tonia Barrows–, not on shore leave (where Spock made the universe’s worst wingman and number one party pooper, and could not be ditched for love nor money), not even when he took leave to visit Joanna and went into the town for a little nip of bourbon and some dancing, only to get saddled with Jim and Spock and Sulu after Jim commed him and the three of them beamed down to sit next to McCoy all evening, keeping even his old friends from wandering over for a chat. McCoy didn’t even get to join the line dance, for fucksake.

Sitting in the kitchen of the old farmhouse where he’d grown up, watching Jim bounce a pajama-clad Joanna on his knee, seeing Spock trailing his mother through the kitchen and endeavoring to learn her biscuit recipe– an Abbott and Costello comedy of errors, starting with Spock’s innocent but suicidal question of “how much soda” and proceeding through all of his mother’s patient but querulous answers of “a pinch” and “depends” and “a little bit” and “just enough to go with however much flour you used”– he thought he might just be going a little bit crazy (he knew his mama was). 

Why the hell would Spock want to know his mother’s recipes?

And then there is Spock on his porch, and Spock in the Formal Courting Parlor playing his mother’s old upright piano (you don’t set foot in there on pain of death unless there’s Company, and the instant they leave, McCoy’s mama will be in there with the carpet sweeper making sure the floor still looks pristine and untouched because God Forbid There Should Be A Footprint On The Rug), and Spock in the upstairs hall and Spock’s shaving kit in his bathroom and Leonard slips out the door and tries to go be alone for a little bit but there is Spock in the orchard and Spock is wearing one of Leonard’s old straw hats and Spock is waiting by the barn and Spock is at his shoulder looking over the fence into the pigpen, his nose wrinkled against the smell. 

“Damn it, Spock!” Leonard pleads with him, and hears the plea in his tone, the confusion, the surrender. “If you don’t back off, I’m gonna start thinking you want me to ask you to bed!”

Spock’s eyes are there to meet his; they do not flinch away. Suddenly the whole world is a different shade of green and McCoy’s heart is pounding high and frightened in his throat and the bees are in the apple blossoms and the forsythia and the last of the jonquils are soft yellow against the green. 

Spock’s mouth is soft and very gentle, and McCoy knows– he knows– that when they go in he will see Jim and Sulu trade glances, and he will see money change hands, because they came to watch for this, of course they did, they’ve all known forever what he’s only learning now.

“Damn it, Spock,” he says again, but this time his voice is soft and Spock’s eyes are smiling.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spones, AOS, rated T and up

McCoy was going crazy. He _knew_ it. 

First Spock laughed at him-- laughed at the idea that McCoy would want him gone. And if that were all that had happened, McCoy would be coping a hell of a lot better than he was right now, with Spock standing before, him, measured phrases emerging from his lips and imprinting on McCoy's mind like words read from a speech balloon in a graphic novel.

He would think he was overreacting, even now-- but after he laughed, Spock said he cared. Spock called him 'Leonard.' Spock said he respected McCoy. And OK, maybe even that could be put down to the blood loss, the traumatic injury, the stress of losing the ship and enduring a near-death experience on Altamid.

But then came the rest of it. Spock wanted his company on the bee ship mission. Spock reported that McCoy was an excellent pilot, responsible for significant damage to the enemy forces, including destruction of Krall's ships on impact with the Franklin. 

And after that _somebody_ left that jewelry box with the necklace in it on McCoy's desk, the necklace McCoy was wearing right now. Maybe it was a stretch, assuming that's who it came from. But Spock was always hanging around now that he and Nyota were history, and next to nobody else knew where McCoy lived. Spock was _ubiquitous._ McCoy couldn't look up without finding him there, like Spock had a trace on him. And in spite of that he was wearing the damned necklace-- fuck him right in the ear, he was wearing it like a prize trophy. He'd swallowed the bait hook, line, and sinker. Jesus _Christ,_ he had the brains of a particularly thick brick!

But Spock had finished his inquiry, and his head was tilted toward McCoy, conspiratorial, and last night he had laid his hand on the small of McCoy's back in the bar when he got jostled, ostensibly intending only to steady him, but the hand had _lingered_ until they sat down. And there had been Jim looking at McCoy like he was fucking _insane_ when he insisted Spock had laughed and told him secrets. Obviously Spock never did that. With anybody.

Now Spock had one brow raised, hands clasped behind his back, and wore the most coolly supercilious manner McCoy had seen ever since a nun caught him sneaking a drink from a holy water font in a cathedral one steaming hot afternoon when he was a boy visiting relatives in Atlanta. The coolness of his expression said a lot; it said Spock felt nervous. The words that just came out of Spock's mouth were still echoing in the room, fragile fluttering things. McCoy stared at Spock; his head nodded; his mouth tasted dry and his heart thundered and the collar of his uniform was way too tight.

"Yeah, sure," he said lightly. "I'd like to have dinner." He felt himself teetering, as surely as if his toes hung off the edge of the high dive at a community pool. Spock's eyes were dark and they did not waver, fixed on McCoy's, and just the faintest hint of a smug smile lifted the corner of his mouth. McCoy dropped his scrub jacket on the corner of his desk and tried for nonchalance as they sauntered out together, but as they did, he felt the ghost of those fingertips against the small of his back again, and he let himself go: giddy, panicked, _soaring_.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TOS (movieverse, pre ST:TMP) - Spirk (post-breakup), Spones (unrequited). Mostly clueless, McCoy wonders what the hell went wrong. Cameo by Joanna. Bittersweet character study.

Leonard McCoy sits on his mama's old porch swing, sipping neat whiskey and staring out over her backyard. Wisteria and English ivy are eating the place alive, but she won't let him use chemicals to get rid of the damn pesky stuff because she loves the toads that hop around and hide in her rockery. They don't handle herbicides very well.

He sways gently back and forth, nudging the ground with his toes to keep the motion going. His mother's ancient lapdog totters out creakily, considering the leap up onto the seat by his side. Leonard takes pity on the poor short-legged pug-nosed thing and picks it up onto the swing next to him; he scratches it meditatively and keeps on rocking. 

The stars begin to come out, meshed in the swaying branches of the cherry tree. The breeze hisses softly and the cicadas sing like there's no tomorrow. Leonard doesn't try to name the stars he can see. Maybe one of them is 40 Eridani A. He doesn't try to figure it out. Spock's there, back home, working diligently to amputate every last vestige of what had once made him seem almost human. The Vulcans call that "kolineer" or something similar, and Spock's gone to find it at some sacred monk mountain. 

One by one, lights go off in the house behind Leonard. He takes another sip of the whiskey, which tastes both smoky and peaty on his tongue. Gazing out over the yard, Leonard wishes there were lightning bugs. He's heard of them, seen old-timey videos, seen simulations, but there aren't any. Unlike toads, they didn't make it out of the 21st century. 

He makes do with the heat lightning playing on the western horizon. It reminds him of Jim-- mercurial, unpredictable, reliable in its very resilience. Kill McCoy, kill his mama, kill everybody-- hell, even kill all the damn toads-- and the lightning will stick around. Kind of like Jim. Jim never gives up; he's a force of nature-- and sometimes he leaves devastation in his wake. 

Leonard wonders how Jim's faring in the wake of losing his battle to keep Spock on Earth. He wonders what the hell he did to send Spock running.

He knows something _big_ happened, but Spock's gone and Jim's not talking (which almost surely means he's ashamed as hell about whatever went down), so McCoy's been left guessing. Best he can figure, Jim finally hit Spock up for some good old human loving and Spock was so damn tempted to put out he ran screaming in a panic. 

Leonard snorts, disturbing the dog, who looks up at him reproachfully before laying her snub-nosed head back on his knee. If Spock would've ever put out for anybody when he was in his right mind, it would've been for Jim Kirk. Nobody else. Not by the end, anyway.

The liquor burns as he swallows. Spock never looked at _him_ twice, nosirree, it was all Jim all the time, 24/7/365. It got to where McCoy had to be nasty with the green-blooded bastard just to keep up his pride. Nobody knew, thank God; if he's lucky, nobody ever even suspected. Not Spock, not Jim, not Chapel... nobody. Damned fool idea... incontrovertible proof that a man's heart has all the good sense of a cabbage. 

"Not a god-damned soul," he tells the dog, which takes the words as encouragement and rolls over to have its tummy scratched. He obliges it clumsily, his eyes drawn upward to the stars once more. 

"Daddy?" Joanna comes out, neat and crisp in her nurse's whites. "You out here?"

"Just rockin'." McCoy smiles up at her a little fuzzily. "You done with your shift? Good."

"Yeah. You're rockin' and broodin'." She has his accent, his blue eyes-- and thanks be to whatever powers decide those things, not much else. Everything else, including her good looks and her practical good-sense, is her mama's. 

"Like a hen on a nest box." He offers her his glass and she takes it and has a sip, sighing and sitting down lightly on a wicker chair older than she is. 

"Light on the comm's flashing. You expecting a call?"

No, he isn't-- it won't be from Jim, and it definitely won't be from Spock.

"No, darlin'." McCoy leans back. "I've resigned my commission. It won't be anything important." He wonders how long it'll be before Jim bothers to find out McCoy quit Starfleet. He's so torn up over Spock McCoy bets it won't be soon. Let Jim think he's the only one who's suffered. That'll be McCoy's gift to him.

The lightning's starting to draw closer; it's not heat lightning after all. He can see the tops of cumulonimbus clouds lighting up with every flash. There's a storm coming, but it's still a long ways away. 

There's still time to sit and rest, time to brood and plan to open a little practice all his own somewhere so he can take care of scratches and scrapes and kids with broken arms and prescribe headache medicine for their elders. He can finally set his own hours, his own stress levels. He can wear whatever he wants; he can do whatever he wants. Ain't nobody going to stop him. 

McCoy doesn't know how long this interlude will last-- this peace, this calm and quiet. He doesn't know whether he'll wake up one day and the comm will be for him, dragging him right back out into the black. He decides he'll deal with that day if it comes. For now, he decides to treat these moments like the precious second chance they are.

McCoy smiles fondly at his daughter and snitches his glass back before she can empty it. He knocks back the last swallow. "Storm's brewin'," he says gently. "Let's go in before your grandma starts to fret."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it suits you, consider this a canon-compliant interlude in a story where the plot was very like Killashandra's "Turning Point" series; i. e., Kirk and Spock got together after Kirk lost the Enterprise, but due to several serious situational complications, they broke up and Spock fled into the Kolinahr. McCoy's right; V'Ger will come along and haul him right back into the thick of things... but I like thinking he got some time to be himself, to relax and practice some uncomplicated medicine, and to get to know his daughter.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: AOS, Spock/McCoy. Rated T for the circumstances that lead to shirt-swapping.
> 
> ilovetinycreatures asked for 36: “Is that my shirt?"

‘Lunch’ has only been over for half an hour, but Bones already misses Spock. He cooks up an excuse to visit the bridge. Once he arrives, he wanders around, saving his trip past Spock’s station for a discreet few minutes before approaching him. As he does, though, he stops short behind Spock’s station on the bridge, gazing down. He reaches out to touch Spock’s arm and whispers, “Is that my shirt?”

His whisper is louder than he meant it to be– or maybe it just happens at a bad time, during one of those moments when an angel is passing overhead. In any case, the entire bridge crew swivels as one to look at them in amazement– because it _is_ McCoy’s shirt; Spock’s got on lieutenant commander’s insignia.

“Well, well,” Jim grins. Behind him, Pavel’s eyes are wide as he drinks it all in, Sulu is smirking, and Uhura is rolling her eyes unto the heavens, long-suffering. 

“I believe it is.” Spock attempts to appear unruffled, but there is a green flush gathering on his cheekbones and on the tips of his ears. “I shall return it at the end of this shift, if you do not require it now.”

“No rush,” McCoy drawls, not about to let Spock outdo him; he keeps as cool as a cucumber. “I already have one of my ow–” he realizes the insignia at his own sleeves is wrong, and stumbles to a halt. 

Jim grins even wider, like a shark. “Isn’t there something you gentlemen would like to share with the rest of us?”

McCoy considers that. “Nope,” he says, and Spock agrees by swiveling back to his console and resuming whatever the hell it was he was doing when McCoy turned up to visit. 

McCoy figures he’s the lucky one. He, at least, can make himself scarce and scuttle back to his quarters to change before anyone else notices. But he can’t do anything about the scuttlebutt; by the time he makes it back to sickbay, Christine is looking at him with wide, shocked eyes and M’Benga hides a smirk behind his PADD.

“Shut up,” McCoy tells them both and flees into his office until time for supper.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: TOS, Spock/McCoy/Kirk implied. Rated T. Warning: suffocation/drowning trigger
> 
> asexual-sailor asked for #6: "I can't breathe"

It takes McCoy a second to realize Spock isn’t with them. Maybe he and Kirk realize it at the same time; they turn back as one and retrace their steps. Not far behind, Spock is frowning down at his ankle, where a rock has shifted, imprisoning his foot in a crevice.

Spock looks down at the offending boulder with something that might have been impatience if he weren’t Vulcan.

“Three to beam up,” Kirk says, his communicator chirping, but only static answers him.

“I’ll go find a branch to use as a lever,” Kirk mutters, and hastens off, leaving McCoy to kneel down and examine Spock’s foot. He can hear the surf beating not far away– which wouldn’t be a problem if this weren’t the bottom of a half-drained tide pool. Is the tide coming in or going out? McCoy doesn’t know.

“Can you pull your foot out of your boot?”

“I cannot.” Spock strains, struggling to obey. McCoy tries to help him– he even squirts medical lubricant down into the boot, but the foot is held fast. A drift of spray scatters over them, and McCoy glances up anxiously at the rocks between them and the surf. Water is already starting to trickle down, and more is coming with every new breaking wave.

“Do you have your laser scalpel with you, Doctor McCoy?” Spock inquires with tight purpose. He might sound passionless to anyone who didn’t know him so well.

“I’m not amputating your goddamn foot, Spock.” McCoy doesn’t have anything on him big enough to do the job. His mind considers the grim possibility from all angles. Spock’s Vulcan bones are just about impossible to break or to hack through. That foot isn’t going anywhere.

The next wave breaks over the rock, and water cascades down over them, drenching them both. McCoy curses, tugging at the foot again. Where the hell is Jim?

“I can’t find anything to use as a lever.” Jim’s head appears over the dune. “Have you– shit.” He slithers down in haste, shoving at the boulders– but his and McCoy’s combined strength are nowhere near enough. Even Spock can’t help them shift the stones. 

The water is up to Spock’s ass by the time they give up the struggle; the wet slippery algae on the rock isn’t helping at all. McCoy and Jim have both bloodied their hands, and both ignore the damage, not making eye contact. McCoy gets a big piece of shell and shovels at the sand around one of the rocks, but it’s a losing battle; the water just lets it slide right back in.

“I’m going to get to high ground and call for help.” Jim sprints off without waiting for arguments. Anything– beam-out, a breathing gill, whatever.  
McCoy uses his body to try to shield Spock’s face when the next wave comes in. The water is up to Spock’s chest now, his uniform shirt billowing around his body.

“Doctor,” Spock sputters a little as water fills his mouth; the damned hole is filling up like nobody’s business. “You should go. If further rocks shift, you may also find yourself trapped.”

“Shut the hell up,” McCoy tells him, hearing enough terror for both of them sharpen his voice. How fucking ironic is this– Spock, born and raised on a desert world, is about to die the wettest possible death.

Another wave surges in, raising the water level by at least a foot. Spock looks at the surface of the water from the corners of his eyes, his head tipped back, his mouth barely above the surface. “I cannot breathe,” he says, and though the words are flat and simple, something desperate flickers in his eyes as they lock onto McCoy’s. Too many things unsaid. Too many things undone. Too late to say any of it now.

Leonard curses and clutches at the rough surface of the rocks to keep his balance as the next wave sweeps in. He hauls in a deep breath and plunges beneath the surface, seeking. 

Beneath the water it is oddly peaceful; Spock’s hair floats on the current; his eyes are open, fixed on McCoy; he is still.

McCoy presses against Spock, seals their mouths together, breathes into him. Spock opens, taking air. McCoy pulls away and surfaces, returns.  
This can’t last long– each breath will be less rich in oxygen, and who knows how deep this water’s going to get before it’s through. Where the hell’s Jim, anyway?

McCoy gasps for breath and goes down again. Spock’s lips are cold; they open readily. He does not panic; he does not clutch. He sucks deeply on McCoy’s mouth, though, taking all he can, before releasing him and allowing him to pull away. A silvery thread of bubbles rises from one of his nostrils; he composes himself with perfect serenity.

McCoy surfaces, choking as another wave sweeps in just while he’s trying to take a breath. It costs him precious seconds. He dives, kicking, fighting the current. Spock’s eyes are heavy-lidded by the time he makes it down, and a swirl of sand nearly obscures his features. McCoy seizes him, kisses breath into him. Somewhere in his mind he’s sobbing, screaming. _Hold on. God, hold on. Hold on. Jim will come._

Spock’s hand rises, slides over McCoy’s in a trembling caress. Then McCoy goes, kicking for the surface, his head spinning. He’d fucking well cut off Spock’s foot if he could. He’d cut off his own damn foot if it’d get Spock out. He gasps, dives, breathes life for Spock. Once, twice, again. Each time it’s harder to make it back down without being swept away; after the tide fills the hole entirely, McCoy isn’t sure he’ll still be able to make it down. It’ll sweep him away– maybe even out to sea. But he won’t quit. He can’t. He can’t let Spock die.

_Spock._

He dives, curling his hands around Spock’s head. Spock is fading; he barely seems to recognize McCoy. McCoy sobs breath into him, opening the half-unresponsive mouth with his own. When will Spock give up waiting and fill his lungs with water, unable to deny reflex any longer? Bones gives him all he can, winding his fingers in Spock’s wet hair, running one thumb along his ear. Alive. Alive. _Goddammit, Spock–_

Then Jim is there in a cascade of bubbles, and Jim is fumbling at Spock’s head: he has a breathing gill. He fumbles it over Spock’s head in haste and pulls the straps tight. Spock sputters, coughs– takes a breath. One. Two. Then McCoy’s shrieking lungs drag him away and he and Jim scramble for shore together, dragging themselves bodily over seaweed and sand. 

McCoy stares down into the turbid, murky water, shaking so badly he can barely crawl. Jim helps hoist him up out of the reach of the grasping waves.

“He’ll be fine,” he follows McCoy’s anxious gaze back to the water. “Scotty’s coming with a transporter signal booster. We’ll beam him out of there. You kept him alive until I could–” his voice breaks as it dawns on him how close they came to losing Spock. 

McCoy flops back on the sand and hopes Jim can’t tell the wetness on his face isn’t all from the ocean water. Scotty is coming at a run; he has a big boxy machine under his arm and is slipping and sliding over the seaweed-strewn rocks. 

“Did you–”

“We got the gill on him in time.”

“Mr. Scott, we have a lock on all four of you,” Riley’s voice interrupts them. 

“Beam us directly to sickbay,” Bones tells him. “He’ll need that ankle looked at. He’ll need his lungs checked.”

“Will do.” 

The sparkles take them, and McCoy is prepared to catch Spock as he staggers, his damaged ankle refusing to hold him. He peels off the precious, life-saving gill and Spock’s dark eyes open, gazing up into his once more. It’s all McCoy can do to hold it together, not to grasp Spock’s face, not to bring their mouths together again– not to savor the proof that Spock’s alive, that he’s breathing, that he’s going to be just fine. 

“Christine! Help me get him onto the bio-bed,” McCoy snaps, falling into crisis mode again. 

He can fall apart later, when Spock isn’t watching.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: TOS, McKirk. Rated M.
> 
> ilovetinycreatures asked for 1. “We’re not just friends and you fucking know it.”

"We're not just friends and you fucking know it."

McCoy hears Jim talking, but he lies right where he is without answering for a while, watching the stars wheel overhead. They’re wheeling rather faster than they ought to, given that this is Earth; it’s possible he’s had too damn much whiskey. 

“OK, we’re more than friends. We’re family,” he says after a while and listens to Jim’s patient sigh. But there’s the whole business with Jim’s crush on Spock between them– hell, there’s the whole business about McCoy’s own crush on Spock looming there like an elephant in the room too, damn it– and there’s the fact that McCoy knows he can’t handle romantic relationships for shit, so he’s never done anything much about either of the two men in his life.

“Hell, Jim, after all the shit we’ve been through together? We’re whatever you want,” McCoy mumbles when the silence stretches between them, and he feels his cheeks turn red. He’s glad it’s dark except for the campfire. 

“That’ll do for starters, Bones.” They’re the captain’s tones, dry and a little sarcastic, but Jim’s hand slides over his belly and when Jim nestles closer, McCoy lifts his arm to let Jim pillow his head there. Firelight catches in Jim’s amber-green eyes and gilds his lashes and McCoy sighs, his arm curving around Jim’s. Men like them don’t have a home, maybe, except for each other. He nuzzles a kiss against the crown of Jim’s head, his lips barely touching, but Jim’s little purr says he felt it. 

They lie still, content to let the comfortable silence lie undisturbed between them, as the campfire slowly burns itself to embers and then to ash. Then Jim’s thigh stirs, sliding over Leonard’s, and they move slowly together for a time, gentle and tender, before Jim draws his sleeping bag over them both.

They fall asleep just as they are.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: AOS, McSpirk. Rated Gen. 
> 
> Intuitivelyfortuitous asked for prompt 2: "Please don't cry. I can't stand to see you cry."

“Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry.”

McCoy traps the words behind his teeth and somehow manages not to say them as he stands across the cryo-tube from Spock, who is suspiciously wet around the eyes. 

The tribble McCoy inadvertently saved with Khan’s blood sits on the tube, purring its formerly-dead heart out. Khan himself is in sickbay, giving an involuntary blood donation preparatory to being re-frozen himself and turned over to Starfleet, who will hopefully bury him and his people in some warehouse somewhere, never to be seen or heard from again. 

“He’ll live,” McCoy promises. “He might even be his old self again. But I’m going to need your help keeping Starfleet off our backs while he recovers.”

“Anything,” Spock says, reaching out to set his hand over the faceplate, longing to touch Jim again. McCoy swallows hard and puts his own hand over the top of Spock’s, knowing it’s an intimate gesture-- not caring. If Jim doesn’t live he may never care about anything much ever again. 

He doesn’t need to be told: Spock feels the same.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: AOS, McSpirk, Gen
> 
> Intuitivelyfortuitous asked for 27: “If we get caught I’m blaming you.”

Jim uses his captain’s override on Spock’s door and it slides open, revealing his empty quarters. The meditation idol glows softly in the dim; dry heat bakes out in a wave that makes McCoy break out in an immediate sweat.

“At least it’s dry heat,” Jim jokes as they step hastily inside.

“If we get caught I’m blaming you,” McCoy mutters. He’s never been invited inside Spock’s quarters in a social capacity and it makes him excessively uncomfortable to be here now without permission.

“How else are we supposed to figure out what to get him for his birthday?” Jim starts to rummage enthusiastically while Bones rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “You check his tea supply. I’ll look to see if I can figure out what kind of incense he uses.”

“Maybe we should get him strings for his harp.” Bones unwillingly pokes around on the neatly laid out tea-tray, but he can’t read any of the labels. He photographs them with his PADD anyway.

“Aha,” Jim cackles, half-buried in Spock’s closet. “I’ve found his robe size!”

“Or maybe it’s a designer label,” McCoy grouses. “You don’t read Vulcan any better than I do.”

“It was this or go crawling to Uhura,” Jim takes a few photos of his own. “You remember how smug she was last year.”

“That’s nothing to what she’ll be like if we get caught. Can we please get the fuck out of here before that happens?” Their planned excuse, that McCoy’s looking for dangerous mold and spore contaminants from their last away mission, is laughably thin-- especially if Spock catches him peering around under the bed.

“You read my mind,” Jim grins at him, mischievous, poking into the pockets of some sort of black shawl or something from Spock’s closet.

“Not funny.” McCoy tries to make sure everything looks exactly as Spock left it, but he can’t be sure. He glances around frantically, but the hall is empty. Thank the powers that be!

They slink away together, armed with the best pre-birthday information that unforgivable invasion of privacy can provide.


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AOS, Spock/McCoy, Spock/other, angst
> 
> @ilovetinycreatures asked for 8. “Why are you so jealous?” in my choice of pairings. I chose Spones.

Spock and Uhura part ways for the final time on a Thursday sometime after lunch. McCoy can pinpoint the hour, if not the minute—he hears about it before two; Chapel and Burke gossip about it with quiet excitement in the hall outside his office.

He sits back after his shift finishes and broods over a glass of bourbon. He plans the ways he might move in. He decides it’s only polite to observe a decent waiting period, say, a month or two. It wouldn’t be polite to walk in tomorrow morning and make his move.

Three days later he’s staring at Spock sitting with one of the Yorktown ops officers at a table halfway across the bar, and he’s seething. 

That one doesn’t work out.

Nor does the next.

Nor the next.

Inside a couple of months Spock goes through what seems like half the population of Yorktown. Humans, males, females, aliens, he doesn’t discriminate. One night he takes a date out to a bar. The next one accompanies him to dinner. The next night he takes a new companion dancing. The entire crew of the Enterprise is abuzz with the news. 

McCoy seethes in livid silence. At least none of them last long.

He wonders if any of those dates are getting any.

He wonders if they run screaming after just one night of the Vulcan’s company. He wonders how that makes Spock feel.

He wonders how you get Spock to ask you out. He makes sure to spend some time in Spock’s company, but Spock serenely maintains their usual relationship and McCoy has no fucking idea how to get Spock to ask him, and he can’t find the words to ask Spock for himself. Besides, Spock’s apparently already booked up. 

Then comes the day Spock sees someone twice in a row. Three times. Four. Worse, it’s one of the Enterprise crew, a newly assigned low-level medic on McCoy’s own fucking staff, a clean-cut fresh-faced young human male with dark brown hair and smiling brown eyes. McCoy immediately hates the man so badly he can’t see straight.

McCoy only thought he was pissed off before. Now he’s seething with so much wrath he can’t stand to be be in the same room with Lieutenant Junior Grade Harris, much less work with him. He sends Harris off to work in the pathology lab and slams his way into his office, snarling.

That night he tries to resist Scotty’s invitation and stay home, but with Chekov and Uhura’s help Scotty pries him out and takes him to a restaurant famed for ribs and steak and about six other kinds of meat. No way will Spock set foot anywhere within a hundred yards of–

Spock walks in, talking animatedly with Harris, who sits down to a massive platter of barbecued chicken. Spock, apparently, orders a salad.

McCoy’s teeth grind audibly and he manages to snap a rib bone between two fingers before setting it carefully down on his plate. 

Scotty’s watching him keenly; he’s brought Uhura, who addresses herself to a filet of fish and completely ignores Spock’s presence on the far side of the restaurant. Everyone’s ignoring Spock except McCoy, whose eyes are drawn back to him and his date over and over again like iron filings to a magnet.

After half an hour, Uhura lifts her gaze and regards him mildly. “Why are you so jealous, Leonard?”

McCoy sputters and tries to deny it, but she just folds her napkin and tosses it on her plate.

“If you want to go out with Spock, you should just ask him.”

“I don’t want to date the—” McCoy discards half a dozen adjectives, deciding they’re too impolite for mixed company— “blasted hobgoblin.”

“Bollocks,” Scotty says, decisive, polishing off his steak. “You’ve had steam coming out your ears every time you’ve laid eyes on Spock and his dates this month past.”

“I’m indignant on the lady’s behalf,” McCoy lies. Uhura just snorts at him.

“Suit yourself,” she says. “It’s not like I’d recommend dating him. Not after everything he put me through.”

McCoy grinds his teeth at her. 

He grimly locks his eyes on his plate. No, he won’t ask Spock out.

Instead, he plots ways to justify sending Harris to a permanent posting somewhere in the Gamma Quadrant, preferably through a wormhole that only cycles once every 600 years.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: AOS, McSpirk
> 
> @uss-logical asked for 19 with Spones or McSpirk: “I think I’m in love with you, and that scares the crap out of me.”

McCoy paces his quarters like a tiger in a cage, teeth worrying his lower lip. His problem is starting to affect his work; he can’t focus. Can’t concentrate. Ever since their most recent away mission, where he nearly lost them both, Jim and Spock have both remarked on his distraction.

“Bones, what’s wrong?”

“Doctor McCoy, you seem uncomfortable.”

They’ll only accept his prevarications for so long. Not very long, if he knows them. They’re probably already comparing notes.

McCoy flops onto his bed, heaving a sigh. He might have confessed to Jim, back in the academy—but Jim’s womanizing ways scared him so badly he never did. 

He might admit his feelings to Spock—the man’s finally broken up with Uhura for once and for all, at least as far as Leonard can see. But he’s seen Spock avoiding Chapel, and he flinches away from the notion of spending the rest of the five year mission with the first officer treating him like he’s a leper.

“Unclean,” McCoy mutters, and imagines ringing a bell as he wanders through the corridors so Spock can hear him coming and hide. Jim, too, for that matter. They could practice their tag-team avoidance.

Not many things scare Leonard McCoy. He’s stood up to madmen, stared death in the face more times than he can count, even snatched Jim back from beyond death’s very teeth. 

His door chimes. Bones sits up and stares at it. “Come,” he says, and it opens to reveal Spock and Jim, come to beard him in his den. 

He turns his back on them and stares at the wall intently, as if the Mona Lisa is painted there. Rip the bandage right off the wound before it can fester. It’s the only way.

“I think I’m in love with you, and that scares the crap out of me,” he says steadily. He doesn’t specify which of them he means. He stands there waiting for the door to shut again with both of them outside.

Instead the footsteps advance as the door closes and Jim’s hand falls on his shoulder. A moment later, Spock’s follows it.

McCoy closes his eyes and lets Jim turn him around. Jim wraps him up and Spock’s arms go around them both, tentative but warm.

McCoy sighs and lets his head sink down onto Spock’s shoulder, his hand sliding around Jim’s waist. 

The truth has never felt so good.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: AOS (with TAS reference): McSpirk, rated mild teen.
> 
> @samwilson wanted prompt 47 and McSpirk: “You’re seriously like a man-child.”

Duty on New Vulcan is a special sort of compassionate leave, one with a no-denial stipulation attached, so no matter how inconvenient it is, when the call comes for Spock, Jim has to let his first officer answer it. At least it’s only for a couple of months. As so-called ‘Ambassador Selek’ points out, Spock is a mentor, a much needed wisdom figure and role model for young Vulcans. He will be training them in survival skills and combat techniques while working to adapt the kahs-wan test to the unique challenges presented by the environment on New Vulcan.

Jim counts the days. Not only because he misses Spock, but because without Spock, McCoy hasn’t got anyone but Jim to sharpen his wits—and his favorite hypospray—on. 

They finally beam down to New Vulcan to retrieve Spock and find him in a clearing, sitting ranged around a campfire with about thirty young children of mixed gender. 

McCoy blinks at the spectacle. “Pinch me,” he says. “I’m dreaming.”

Jim doesn’t. He wipes his face instead; it’s hotter than a two-dollar laser and the outfits the Vulcans are wearing are obviously… logical, if brief.

“This is Captain James T. Kirk of the U. S. S. Enterprise and also its chief surgeon, Lieutenant Commander Leonard McCoy,” Spock introduces them politely. “I have heard some among you express the opinion that human adults are less resilient than Vulcan children, but I assure you. Both these men would survive the kahs-wan without difficulty. Starfleet officers’ training deals extensively with survival in hostile environments.” 

Kirk sincerely hopes they aren’t about to be volunteered for ten days in the desert without food, water, and shelter, but McCoy refuses to rise to the bait, eyeing Spock with an expression that says once the kiddies have gone, there’ll be hell to pay. Spock’s wearing exactly what the young boys are—a pair of black briefs over low boots with a utility belt and a bandolier over one shoulder. McCoy seems to be on a countdown to explode like a grenade with the pin pulled out. 

“Forage for food and water to provide hospitality for our guests,” Spock directs the children, correctly guessing that McCoy is likely to explode if he can’t get off a smart-ass remark post haste. The children disperse quickly.

“Damn, Spock.” McCoy doesn’t disappoint, approaching him with a mirthful gleam in his eyes. “Look at you in this Boy Scout getup. You’re seriously like a man-child.”

“This is the standard for kahs-wan survival gear,” Spock says calmly. “Instructors wear it to reinforce the sense of community experienced between themselves and their pupils. In practice, it reduces the likelihood that candidates will smuggle unauthorized equipment into the desert. ”

“Only one place to smuggle anything wearing an outfit like that.” McCoy grins, wolfish, and Spock raises a brow at him. “Not a very childlike place to smuggle things, I’ve got to say.”

“Not in front of the kids, Bones,” Kirk chuckles, but when Leonard snitches a kiss from Spock, he steps up to receive one of his own. “But if you want to bring that get-up aboard when you’re through, Spock, I guarantee we can find a good use for it.”

“The sooner the better. What kind of food and water are they gonna bring back?” McCoy regards Spock suspiciously, glancing across the stony dun and brown of the desert.

“I should have mentioned we’ve got to get back to the ship right away,” Kirk agrees with too much enthusiasm. 

“They will return very shortly.” Spock gives Kirk such a reproachful glance he sighs and gives in.

After all, he has reason to believe there’ll be quite a delectable feast to enjoy later.


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek: AOS or TOS, Spones, rated M.
> 
> Anonymous asked for Spones or McSpirk with #34: “You come to my room and wake me up at 4 AM to cuddle?”

McCoy is sleeping the sleep of the innocent—or at least of the exhausted—when he feels a heavy, warm body slide in behind his and start hogging the blanket. Strong arms wrap around him and go still; soft breath ruffles the back of his hair. He waits for a moment, anticipation rising in him, but nothing more exciting happens.

“You come to my room and wake me up at 4 AM to cuddle?” McCoy grumbles, his voice rusty with sleep.

“No, doctor.” Spock is as maddeningly precise in this as in all things. “It is only 3:57 and eleven seconds.”

“And you woke me up for cuddles.” McCoy rolls his eyes and nestles comfortably in Spock’s arms.

“No,” Spock corrects him again. “In fact, I have awakened you in hopes that we will now engage in some form of sexual congress.”

It sounds like the most horrible kind of political gathering McCoy could ever envision; he rolls his eyes. 

“That’s better than waking me up for cuddles, I suppose,” McCoy decides; he turns in Spock’s arms. “But in the future, maybe try to remember that ten or eleven or even midnight might be a more appropriate time to initiate intercourse.” Sometimes he has to speak to the hobgoblin in his own language if he doesn’t want to lie there and argue all damn night.

“My shift has just ended, and yours will not begin until after noon tomorrow.”

“That’s beside the point.” McCoy gets one thigh wedged comfortably between Spock’s and rocks luxuriantly against him. 

Spock’s satisfied purr welcomes his initiative. “In fact it is not, provided you wish to achieve orgasm before our responsibilities resume.”

“You’re a hell of a romantic sonofabitch, aren’t you?” McCoy grouses. Before Spock can respond, he silences the inevitable rejoinder with a kiss.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TOS, movies, McKirk with hints of McSpirk. Gen.
> 
> “Despite what you think, I am completely capable of taking care of myself!” prompt requested by @e3h4

“Despite what you think, I am completely capable of taking care of myself!” Jim shouldered into his current favorite T-shirt, which read ‘go climb a rock,’ and stared combatively at his friends, both of whom eyed him with great skepticism.

Throwing up his hands in surrender, McCoy scowled at Jim and dug into his trunk. “Fine. Go get yourself killed. I’ll stay back here in the camp where I don’t have to watch.” He turned his glare on Spock. “Call me when you need a doctor to certify his time of death.”

Spock just raised a brow at McCoy and busied himself in his own pack as Jim took off, his climbing gear slung casually over his shoulder. 

“As if it wasn’t bad enough him trying every way he can think of to get killed when we’re on duty!” McCoy hauled out a pair of binoculars and slung them around his neck. “Damn fool adrenaline junkie….”

“Dr. McCoy.” Spock watched him owlishly, holding a pair of boots dangling from two fingers. “Please confirm my assumption that you are angry primarily due to your affection for the captain and your genuine concern for his well-being.”

McCoy huffed and snarled, but he gave Spock a curt nod. Sometimes Spock still wasn’t 100% back to where he ought to be; he needed the occasional reassurance he was on the right track. 

“While you carried my katra—“

McCoy shifted, not much liking to think about that time; it had been way too up close and personal for his peace of mind. 

“—I received the impression that your affection for Jim was significantly stronger than simple friendship.”

McCoy fidgeted with the binoculars, focusing them on the rock face. “Not that it’s any of your damn business.” He scowled as Spock seated himself on a stone and began to put on the boots. “But Jim and me, we’re friends with benefits,” he stressed the word. “That means our friendship isn’t limited to the standard Platonic model.”

That seemed good enough for Spock, who was apparently sketchy on the topic of marshmallows, but could quote Plato chapter and verse. 

“Then I will take extra care to ensure his safety.” Spock clicked his heels crisply—which ignited an engine in his footwear and sent him climbing rapidly. “I will be sure to catch him, should he fall.”

“Who’s gonna catch you?” McCoy hollered after him, but it was already too late; Spock was long gone.

“Damned reckless idiots, the both of you!” Swearing to himself, McCoy snatched up his binoculars and found a place to sit where he could watch the ascent.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek, either AOS or TOS, Spones drabble, general audiences
> 
> Prompt from imakeshitup: 117: “Can I do your hair?”

“Can I do your hair?” The question popped out before McCoy thought better of it. He sat perched on the edge of Spock’s bed, watching him ready himself for duty– his hair a wet, tousled mess instead of its usual raven’s-wing gloss.

Spock raised a brow, but offered his comb.

McCoy took it, heart filling with tenderness. He swept the teeth of the comb gently through Spock’s hair, trying to shape it as Spock would, mostly failing, enjoying the fine black silk between his fingers.

Spock watched him, his eyes soft, something very near a smile hovering on his lips.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McSpirk drabble, AOS, general audiences
> 
> Prompt from twentyeightisalie: “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.”

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy,” McCoy said softly.

Jim hung his head.

“All the skirts you’ve chased…. Everyone says you’re a bad bet.”

“But we are not everyone,” Spock interjected, his hand on McCoy’s waist.

“Yeah.” Leonard relented, seeing the genuine anguish in Jim’s eyes. “We’re not.” He tugged Jim in. “The way I see it, you’ve just been waiting for the right couple of guys to come along. Two partners, so you won’t get bored. Us, so we won’t put up with your bullshit.”

“I concur,” Spock nodded.

Together they pulled Jim close and kissed him.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spones drabble, AOS or TOS, Mature audiences
> 
> @ilovetinycreatures asked for prompts 20 and 22: “Did you just make that noise” and “You can scream if you want.”

“Did you just make that noise?” McCoy sat bolt upright in bed, abandoning what he was doing, a choice Spock most intensely regretted.

“I did not,” he said with dignity.

“You did,” McCoy insisted, eyes lighting up with glee. “You moaned, Spock. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Perhaps you should renew your efforts to discover whether you can duplicate the results of your hypothesis.” Spock attempted to appear serene and innocent.

McCoy snorted at him, grinning. “Okay,” he said, “I will. On one condition.”

“What is that?” Spock inquired.

“You can scream if you want,” McCoy offered, and began again.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @elizabeth-case asked for:
> 
> 147\. “Look! Fireflies!” Gen, McSpirk, AOS

“Look! Fireflies!” Jim took off chasing the rising phosphorescent point like his heels were on fire and his ass was catching.

“Damn it, Jim, this isn’t Earth!” Bones fell in behind, gathering Spock with a harassed look. “Just because it looks like a firefly—”

“It is a benign creature analogous to the Terran lampyridae,” Spock contributed helpfully, scanning the tiny insect.

“This time,” Bones scowled. “Next time it’ll be a radioactive hellbeast with a hankering for human blood!”

“Statistically, this is the exception to the rule,” Spock agreed.

Jim just pouted and let the insect fly off his finger.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Star Trek, TOS, Spock/McCoy. Saratsuzuki asked for "Could be in an angsty context?? Maybe one believe that the other gonna die, but of course that doesn't happen. And they stay togheter. TOS spones please!!!"

Leonard listened to the whistling hiss of escaping atmosphere, eyes darting around frantically in search of the leak. Spock tracked it through the whirling smoke from the smoldering communications console; it took what felt like an eternity before he found the leak and slapped a patch over it, then doused the flaming console.

“How bad is it,” Leonard went to his side. Spock touched the gauge that measured the content of their oxygen tanks.

“The tanks were also damaged. We have enough for perhaps five minutes– for you. Twenty minutes for myself, if I enter a meditative trance.” He did not say that the Enterprise was at least two hours away at the craft’s maximum speed– which they were no longer capable of achieving.

“The comm’s completely fried, isn’t it.” 

“I believe the most apt human expression would be ‘it is shot to hell,’” Spock responded precisely, still scanning the instrument panel with the desperate air of a man who is counting sand while his house burns down around his ears and believes the fire will go out if only he can finish.

McCoy barked a laugh. They’d made it off the Galileo against all odds, but it wasn’t likely they’d be able to cheat death again. “Aw, hell, Spock. Coulda happened to anybody.” He reached and turned Spock’s face toward his. Leaning in, he brushed his lips to Spock’s. 

The first officer blinked at him, eyes softening, and McCoy took advantage of the moment to do it again, giddy with adrenaline and resignation. “Always wanted to do that.”

Spock tilted his head, something very like a smile forming on his lips. “And perhaps you will have the chance to do it again someday, doctor, provided we survive in the transporter buffer until the Enterprise becomes aware of our plight and comes for us.” He turned back to the console, fingers flying.

“WHAT?” McCoy yelped, blushing wildly. “You green-blooded menace. You should have told me you had a plan before I made a fool out of–”

But it was too late to finish; they dematerialized together into the safety of the pattern buffer.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saratsuzuki asked for "Bones suffers an accident in a mision and when he wake up for some strange reason he believes that both Spock and him are a couple. He is happy, and Spock try to pretend for some time. ..but one day he rejects Bones and he back to his previous hurtful state. Angst with happy ending please!"
> 
> Rated G, TOS or AOS, Bones/Spock

Bones doesn’t understand why they send him back to his quarters alone– or why none of Spock’s things are there when he arrives. He glances around unhappily and turns on Christine. “What is this, some kind of joke? Where’s Spock’s stuff?”

“It was temporarily removed, doctor, for fear you might have amnesia,” she sputters after a moment.

“Well put it back and tell him to get his ass home.” McCoy folds his arms, scowling. “I may forget a lot of things someday, but my husband won’t be one of them.”

Her eyes go wide and she scuttles out, but in half an hour Spock turns up-- without his things.

“There you are.” McCoy says, sighing and sagging onto his bed, patting the mattress at his side. “You know I don’t sleep well if you aren’t here.”

Spock blinks at him for a long moment, seeming indecisive, but eventually they curl up on McCoy’s narrow cot and McCoy can finally sleep off the lingering headache.

The next morning Spock has to replicate a new toothbrush and send to his cabin for a fresh uniform, which makes McCoy irritable. He takes it out on the medbay staff, rather unreasonably, and is even less pleased when he overhears half a conversation between Spock and M’Benga.

“If you indulge his delusions, he’s more likely to retain them. And when he regains his memory, he’ll skin you alive– oh, hello, Leonard.” M’Benga looks embarrassed.

“Doctor,” Spock says gravely. “Your memory is faulty. We are not wed. Dr. M’Benga insists I must set your thinking to rights so you can recover.”

McCoy blinks at him; the news feels like he’s had a shuttlecraft dropped on his head. Of course, that was damn near what happened to fuck him up in the first place.

“Well that’s a relief, because you hogged all the damn covers last night.” He whirls around and stalks out. He hurts inside, his heart shriveling with grief and embarrassment. Holy shit, talk about misplaced wish fulfillment. The only thing he’s got to cling to is that the hobgoblin actually humored him for a night.

He tries not to remember the warm sensation of Spock’s body curled around him or the pleasant weight of Spock’s arm over his side. God _damn_ it.

*****

Leonard’s normal memory resurfaces over the next week– or at least he becomes able to tell the difference between what’s true and what he apparently cooked up out of nowhere while he was still heavily concussed. 

He doesn’t talk to Spock if he can help it. But that replicated toothbrush sits in a slot in his bathroom and it makes him feel like he’s been punched in the gut every time he looks at it. He doesn’t toss it out, though. Spock had to care at least a little, right? Or he wouldn’t have humored Leonard in his confusion. Right? 

_Right?_

Leonard makes himself put one foot in front of the other and tries not to be too surly to his subordinates.

He’s holding the toothbrush in his hand less than a month later, trying to steel himself to toss it in the recycler for once and for all, when his door chimes. It’s Spock on the other side with a PADD full of reports for Leonard to sign.

Spock looks down and McCoy realizes he still has the toothbrush in his hand– it’s pretty damned incriminating because it has a little funny-shaped pick on one end, something Vulcans apparently like. 

Spock raises a brow at Leonard, who feels himself blush painful, hot crimson. 

“You want this thing?” McCoy’s voice is hoarse with unhappiness. “Or should I toss it?”

Spock tilts his head, thoughtful. “Keep it,” he says softly. “Perhaps I will need it again after visiting.”

As propositions go it’s pretty unromantic, but it forces a chuckle out of McCoy and he meets Spock’s eyes for the first time in days. 

“If you’re implying you’d like to sleep over–” he sees Spock begin to stiffen, a shroud of formal reserve falling over his features. “–Then what took you so damned long?”

Spock’s lips quirk in the faintest hint of a smile and he steps inside.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> partyplexplayboi asked for: what about spock being sick
> 
> Spock/McCoy, rated G, TOS or AOS. Hurt-comfort

Of all the crew, there’s only one who hardly ever gets sick: Spock. Except if you count that one time when he had to go back to Vulcan to get married– and that wasn’t sick, per se; it was biologically normal for his species.

But this time, Spock failed to dodge the bullet.

Leonard quarantines him– puts him in his quarters and prescribes rest, plenty of fluids, and hot, nourishing food.

Near as he can tell, Spock has the chicken pox– or something pretty damn like it. Spock looks like he’s been attacked by a swarm of crazed mosquitoes; he’s feverish; he has a hell of a headache (not that he’d admit it, but McCoy’s instruments say it’s a thumper). M’Benga says this is a childhood disease, not communicable to humans. It’s normally quite minor, but because Spock has it as an adult, its symptoms may become much more severe.

McCoy sits with Spock, bitching and grousing about not being able to follow his normal routine– but he does it softly, and when Spock’s headache worsens he shuts up– and he turns off all the lights and damps the sounds from the ventilation, the corridor, and the computer as much as he can.

Spock whimpers whenever anything makes a slight sound; he covers his head to escape the light. McCoy doses him with an analgesic that has no effect. Spock hangs onto his hand and won’t let him go, so finally he climbs into bed gingerly behind Spock and wraps him up, giving him something to cling to as he suffers. McCoy keeps him from clawing at the itchy spots when he’s half out of his mind with pain.

Leonard fucking hates this; he _hates_ it when he can’t make things better. 

Except maybe he can. When Spock wants food or needs to relieve himself, he asks with his mind. McCoy does what’s needed as quietly as he can; he helps Spock sit up to drink the soup, helps him keep hydrated. 

Spock’s clothes are wringing wet; McCoy makes sure he doesn’t kick off the covers and chill himself. He gets him fresh pajamas when the headache allows; he gives him a warm sponge bath.

Spock’s eyes are on him in the dark; McCoy can feel them. He doesn’t mind.

When the fever breaks, he’s the first to feel it– the shivers go out of Spock’s narrow frame and he stops sweating. His muscles slowly relax. McCoy smiles into the darkness.

In the morning Spock can sit up, and he eats a light breakfast, the lights on all the way to 25%. McCoy tries not to smile; he tries not to look fond and indulgent. 

He’s probably failing.

He stays until the quarantine expires, then lets himself out softly while Spock is in the shower.


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enterprisetrampstamp posted this prompt and what-if-I'm-a-mermaid asked me to full fill it:
> 
> have you considered:
> 
> bones and spock accidentally bringing up an old argument in the middle of sexy times, resulting in bones wrapped in a sheet and yelling while a half-dressed spock rather pointedly attempts to shove a PADD in front of his face to prove a point
> 
> depending on your shipping preferences jim may or may not still be naked on the bed, one arm draped over his eyes in defeat
> 
> TOS or AOS, McSpirk, Explicit

“I thought we were having sex,” Jim says, plaintive, sitting up with the sheets falling over his lap. 

“Just a damn minute, Jim. This hobgoblin thinks he knows better than I do about lubricant viscosity? I’ll be damned if I put up with being condescended to in my own bed.”

“Research clearly states, doctor, that plant extracts from the Vulcan n’tkad leaf are both less irritating and more viscuous than silicone lubricants, and such natural lubricants do not break down silicone sex toys–” Spock snatches a padd from the table and begins tapping on it, his undershorts still snagged around one ankle. 

“Initial viscosity doesn’t count. When I’m trying to forget I’m in bed with a damned all-knowing hobgoblin, I need something that’ll last until I forget who I’m with!” McCoy tunes up to full rant mode and begins stomping around stark naked before realizing what he's doing, snatching Jim's sheet, and wrapping himself up in it toga-style.

Jim falls back on the bed and groans, letting his arm flop over his eyes. “I don’t give a good goddamn what kind of lubricant we use as long as **somebody gets back in this bed and fucks me** ,” he mutters. Argument might feel like foreplay to the two idiots he loves, but it isn’t doing a damn thing for James T. Kirk.

They merely ignore him as they continue to shout, so he gives up and takes himself in hand. 

It’s going to be a long wait.


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> payday892 asked for Spones: “I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you.”
> 
> Spock/McCoy, AOS, Gen

“I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you,” Bones snapped, pushing past Jim in a huff. “I’m not drawing a diagram.”

“But you. And Spock!” Jim spread his palms, baffled. “You fight. All the time!” 

“Yeah, so?”

“You said you were glad he doesn’t respect you.”

“I _am_ glad.”

“You said he was a pointy-eared menace to--”

“I said he he doesn’t chase every skirt within six light years, unlike some people I could mention.”

“But Uhura--”

“But nothing. One skirt isn’t _every_ skirt.”

“So you’re together.”

“Congratulations. We’ve gone full circle and arrived right back where this started.” McCoy picked up a hypospray and brandished it, menacing. “Now are you going to put on your big boy underwear and deal, or am I going to refresh your immunizations?”

“I just--” Jim backed off, apparently recognizing discretion was the better part of valor. “What’s he like? In bed.”

“OUT!” McCoy chased Jim halfway to the turbolift and stalked back to sickbay in a huff.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what-if-im-a-mermaid asked for Spones: “That’s disgusting. You’re lucky you’re cute.”
> 
> Spock/McCoy, AOS, Gen. Warning: gross food description

“That’s disgusting. You’re lucky you’re cute.” McCoy leaned on the breakfast table as Jim went for more coffee, fascinated and faintly horrified, watching Spock chase his meal around his plate with a fork. 

“ _Hirat_ are not disgusting. They are delicious.” Spock speared one and ate it with obvious relish. 

“They look like eyeballs. Slimy eyeballs.” McCoy grimaced as Spock pursued another. 

“The slime _hirat_ produce after peeling is both nutritious and flavorful.” Spock twirled some of it around his fork like spaghetti, and McCoy shuddered, closing his eyes as Spock popped the mess into his mouth. 

“I’d rather watch you eat fresh _gagh._ ”

“ _Gagh_ is not vegetarian.”

“I’d still rather watch you eat it.” McCoy blinked and drew back as Spock extended a fruit in his direction, a long thread of slime threatening to drip onto the table. “No way.”

“I have seen you consume _meokjangeo_.”

“I was a guest. I was being polite.” McCoy shuddered again. 

“Technically you are often a guest in my quarters.” Spock deftly twirled his fork so that the slime fell onto his plate and again offered one of the grape-like fruits to McCoy, who sighed and took it between his teeth.

“Say, that’s not bad.” He chewed with increasing enthusiasm. “Give me another one.”

“Not unless you say it again.”

“Say what?”

“The words you said before.” Spock remained implacable, holding the fork out of McCoy’s reach.

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Fine. They look like slimy eyeballs.”

“Those are not the correct words.” Spock continued to withhold the next bite.

McCoy blushed. “….You’re lucky you’re cute,” he grumbled, making his tone as insulting as possible.

Spock gave him a tolerant look that was the equivalent of a broad smile and fed him another fruit. “No, Leonard. _You_ are lucky that I am ‘cute.’”

“Insufferable hobgoblin,” McCoy said with his mouth full.

“You’re both pretty damn disgusting, if you ask me.” Jim sat down at the table with his fresh cup of coffee and glared at them both. “Is this the Starship Enterprise, or are the two of you still teenagers in high school?”

“He’s just jealous,” McCoy confided to Spock, “Because I called you cute.”

“Indeed.”


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> saratsuzuki asked for Spones: “You need something to look forward to… a reason to fight.” “Alright… If I survive, will you marry me?” (I’ve slightly adapted the prompt and lifted various canonical events shamelessly and transferred them into the Kelvin verse for this, applying them to other places, times, and characters).
> 
> Spock/McCoy, AOS AU, rated G

The Borg are terrible. They make Nero look like a kiddie ride at Disneyland. They make Khan look like training wheels. They take Jim and they make him one of them—they make him their goddamn leader.

Locutus takes Starfleet to fucking _pieces._ The Federation is a memory. All that’s left after Wolf 359 are a ragged coalition of one-time enemies from every race and creed, and their flagship—Enterprise—limping along minus its captain, running on spit and Scottish desperation and the guts and gall of acting captain Spock.

“We can’t go after him,” McCoy says. His hair is turning gray prematurely; his face is lined and worn. “We’ll be killed.”

“There are no others who can—or will.” Even Spock looks weary, haunted darkness in his eyes. “We must either rescue or neutralize him, doctor, or no hope remains for any of us.”

“Damn it.” McCoy scrubbed his hand through his hair. “I fucking hate it when you’re right.” He slumps behind his desk. “There’s no hope.”

“You need something to look forward to,” Spock says, his thin face haggard. “A reason to fight.” He reaches for McCoy’s hand, takes the bottle from it, and swallows without bothering to pour into a glass.

“We both do.” Wheels turn in McCoy’s head, but the gears grind; they don’t take him anywhere.

“If we survive…” Spock fixes McCoy with a level stare. “Will you marry me?”

McCoy laughs, his voice reedy with panic and despair. “You’re that sure we’ll die?”

“No.” Spock sets the bottle aside and clasps McCoy’s hand. “I am that sure we need something personally important to live for.”

McCoy’s head rises; he searches Spock’s firm gaze for a long moment before his jaw squares. “All right,” he says softly. “It’s a deal. You aren’t getting out of this one that easily, goddammit.” He gets up and goes to his cabinet; he takes out emergency phaser and starts outfitting his medical kit. 

“High duty tranquilizer. Neurosuppressant. EMP grenade…. Randomize that damn phaser for me, will you?”

Spock almost smiles; he’s already inserting the chip, preparing it for calibration. 

“We go together,” McCoy says as he straightens up, slinging the case over his shoulder. He doesn’t just mean going to the Borg cube, and Spock knows it.

“Together or not at all,” Spock agrees. He offers his fingers in a Vulcan kiss and McCoy awkwardly extends his own; they press together for a moment, silently saying everything that can’t be said. 

Then Spock leads Leonard out in a desperate bid to retrieve their captain.


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> toosouthernforspace asked for Spones: “You love him, don’t you?” “Was it that   
> obvious?”
> 
> Rated T (for drinking), Spock/McCoy, AOS with Chapel still there (or TOS, if you prefer)

The door of McCoy’s quarters slid shut between the two men inside and Spock, who left with his back ramrod straight, his jaw set tight. 

Jim sighed and reached for the bottle of bourbon on the table. He poured Bones two fingers, paused to contemplate, and added a third. He poured one for himself and sat back to sip it, meditative.

McCoy knocked back half of his drink in one swallow and grimaced, not meeting Jim’s eyes.

“You love him, don’t you?” The words fell into the room like a bomb made of feathers, silence drifting own lazily in their wake. It settled over the room, broken only by the sound of McCoy’s next swallow and the click of his glass on the table.

“Was it that obvious?” McCoy finally asked, eyes haunted.

“Not to him.” Jim poured himself another shot but let Bones take care of himself this time. McCoy reached for his empty glass but didn’t fill it, turning it between his fingers and watching the dregs slide along the curve of the bottom.

“Good,” Bones said, his voice too harsh. “You’ve seen how he treats Chapel now that he knows about her crush. I’d rather not be… suffered.”

Jim did his best to raise an eyebrow—a skill that did not come naturally to him. “Seems to me he’s suffering quite a bit.”

“Damn it! You know what I meant. Tolerated. Endured. _Pitied!_ ” Bones nearly spat the final word. “Chapel’s got a thing for emotionally unavailable men—hell, she couldn’t tell her own damn husband had turned himself into a robot. But wallowing in the whole melodramatic one-sided romance thing? That’s not my idea of a good time.” 

Kirk shrugged a little, feeling unhappy, and set his own glass aside. “I don’t think it’s Spock’s, either.”

“No, I don’t—” McCoy paused. “What’s that supposed to mean, Jim?”

Kirk sighed. “My officers’ emotional lives are not supposed to be any of my business unless they interfere with the running of the ship.”

“You mean Spock doesn’t like Chapel’s crush.”

Jim shrugged, and Leonard’s eyes snapped with annoyance. “Then what _did_ you mean?”

“I mean I’m not at liberty to be any more obvious than that. Figure it out yourself, doctor.” He got up, grabbed his PADD, and let himself out.

If those two didn’t wise up soon, he’d have to choose between marooning them on an abandoned planet until they worked things out or knocking their heads together.


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ilovetinycreatures asked for Spones: “Tell me not to kiss you.” “Don’t kiss me.” “Mean it.” “I can’t”
> 
> Spock/McCoy, Mature, AOS or TOS

The routine arguments between the first officer and the CMO have been intensifying ever since Arigon. Three weeks in, both the science and medical staff are walking around on tiptoe, wall-eyed, passing around bulletins every time they meet: “Collision in deck 5 section C.” “Avoid the pathology lab.” “Weather forecast: thunderstorms with lightning and hail.” 

The crewmen, duly warned and grateful for all such advice, then make a wide detour around the verbal warfare ongoing in deck 5, section C, tiptoe past the pathology lab where McCoy continues the battle against an imaginary opponent while sputtering and fuming over his microscope, or attempt to keep themselves out of both Spock and McCoy’s way so as not to incur whatever extra duties are in process of assignment as a result of agitated tempers. 

McCoy, at least, is directly aware of it—his own staff aren’t half as browbeaten as Spock’s. Spending an afternoon or two running an inventory in the dispensary won’t hurt them, damn it. 

He guesses the forecast is for a tornado warning today—he and Spock are scheduled to share the biology lab. Half a dozen unfortunates are also scheduled to attend; they’re supposed to assist or to supervise various ongoing experiments therein, tending them as necessary. 

Conditions are right. All the required elements for chaos are in place. McCoy means to go through Spock like an F5 on the enhanced Fujita scale.

The staff are very quiet when McCoy arrives at the lab an hour early to begin his shift; two ensigns manage to make excuses and flee.

McCoy tries a cordial greeting when Spock arrives, but he can tell the first officer isn’t pleased that McCoy has beaten him in and claimed the electron microscope. 

“Dr. McCoy. Please inform me when that instrument is free.” Spock’s back is ramrod straight. You could probably use the edge in his voice to cut diamonds.

“Gonna be a while, Spock,” McCoy drawls. “I’m looking at those microbial samples we took on Arigon VII before the shit hit the fan.” There’s the hook, plain as day on the radar for anybody who’s been monitoring their interactions.

Spock’s shoulders stiffen further; that was where it all started. Their mission went sour and they wound up losing the rest of the away team—it came down to the two of them stuffed into a cell about the size of a twentieth-century telephone booth. The Arigonian leader told them they were both to be executed, one after the other, and they’d occupied the time before rescue disagreeing over who should go first.

“Have you located the pathogen responsible for Arigon syphilis?” Spock begins preparing slides for his own investigation.

“No, I figured I’d let Jim fetch that one home himself.”

The Vulcan very nearly scowls. Leave it to Spock not to appreciate a joke. McCoy sighs. “No, Spock, not yet. We didn’t exactly make it into the target collection zone, if you remember.” 

“I have not suffered any lapse of memory.” Spock replies in such a frosty tone that a yeoman drops her PADD and squeaks, then turns crimson and scuttles out without getting the signature she came in for. 

“Dammit.” McCoy’s had just about enough. “Next time you and I are stuck in a coffin together waiting for the executioner to finish sharpening his axe, Spock, I’ll save you the trouble of an argument and put an end to myself right away.”

“Your determination to go first was the source of, rather than the solution to, our disagreement.” Spock’s eyes snap. “As your superior officer, it is my right to determine—”

“As my superior officer, it’s logical for you to survive and continue the mission,” McCoy interrupts him, leaning lazily against the desk with his arms crossed. “As I pointed out at the time.”

“You are being obtuse.”

“And you, my dear Mr. Spock, are being illogical. I can only speculate why that might be.”

Spock’s mouth pinches and a muscle in his jaw flutters, barely perceptible. McCoy glances around the lab. “Jones, Phillips, that titration won’t need attention for another hour. Maximilian, you can write up your findings somewhere else. Commander Spock and I need to confer in private for a half hour or so,” he snaps. “Everybody get out.”

Spock’s knuckles are suspiciously pale, bloodless where he clutches the edge of the desk. He sneaks a glance at McCoy without lifting his head, eyes hooded. 

“What do Vulcans do when a logical argument exists supporting both of two contrary positions, Spock?” Somewhere in the distance, the dismissed crewmembers are triggering tornado sirens and making frantic news bulletins to alert all the others. Here at ground zero, things seem deceptively calm.

McCoy’s question takes Spock off-guard; it makes him lift his head in spite of himself. “We endeavor to ascertain which argument is most logical or beneficial. In some cases, no such determination can be made and both parties agree to disagree.” Spock eyes him with caution. 

“You don’t accuse one another of focusing on convenient points that skew that party’s logic from one side to the other?”

“Indulging in a biased focus for purposes of argument would be illogical.”

McCoy laughs for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Of course it is. So you just run around calling each other illogical instead of settling anything.”

“Failing to settle arguments and resorting to name-calling is a human failing Vulcans do not share.”

McCoy grins; Spock’s attack is predictable—so he’s ready for it; he’ll counter it with reason instead of reacting emotionally. “You’ve called me illogical more times than I’ve had hot dinners, Spock. Are you saying you share that human failing?” He loves the look on Spock’s face: pure exasperation, the wheels of that powerful mind clicking over at high speed, mind whirling behind his calm visage. 

He admires the affronted straightness of Spock’s posture, too—and he’s pleased with the certain subtle smug bearing that indicates Spock thinks he’s safe; he believes McCoy has abandoned the original point of the conversation, that he’s been diverted to a safe side-issue on which they can conveniently bicker. 

“To the contrary, doctor. I am describing a factually verifiable state of being which you frequently choose to inhabit.”

“Ah. Is that so.” McCoy nods sagely. “Then, Spock, I’m afraid you’ve lost this argument. Because I can factually verify that you, my dear Vulcan, are arguing from a place of deliberate emotional bias in regard to our disagreement over which of us should be sacrificed first. And it isn’t the first time. This happened with the Vians, too.”

Spock pauses in consternation, those mental wheels spinning even faster. McCoy bounces on his toes.

“Your accusation is unsubstantiated unless you can produce the factual verifications to which you so casually refer.”

McCoy smirks. “Fact: you were in command each time, yet you planned to abdicate command responsibilities by pursuing a course of self-sacrifice.”

“It can be argued that—”

“Not according to regulations, it can’t. Fact: you were emotionally compromised on Arigon, as evidenced by both your willingness to ignore regulations and your decision to nerve-pinch me in order to end our debate.”

“I disagree. When we were with the Vians, you also chose to incapacitate me in order to remove my choice in the matter.”

“Yes, but I’m human. My choice was an emotional one. I believe yours was too, Spock. I was protecting something I regarded as more important than my own well-being.” McCoy squirmed a little. “Apparently, so were you.” He hopes Spock won’t take rapid advantage of his assumption that Spock’s intact brain was more important to him than his own possible death. “What other motive would you have for ignoring regulations?” he baits Spock, not letting him recover. 

“Subjective interpretation of evidence does not constitute proof of hypothesis.” Spock’s nostrils flare with evident agitation. 

“You’re emotionally compromised now,” McCoy points out, relentless. “Respiration and pulse elevated. Capillary response producing a flush. Muscles tight with stress. I’ve obviously upset your Vulcan calm. That means I’ve hit close to my target.” He smiles, disarming. “Your unprofessional concern for my welfare is quite obvious.”

Spock’s pretty when he’s flustered—if you can ignore the spikes he sprouts in self defense. McCoy’s learning, though; he’s not going to be deflected any longer. This moment’s been coming ever since Spock saved McCoy’s ass on Triskelion and revealed his subsequent agitation over the need to escape their prison; it’s been building gradually all along. McCoy’s right, and he knows it.

Spock’s fist opens and closes once, then again. “Doctor—” his voice descends half an octave, rumbling with bona-fide, genuine aggravation.

McCoy chuckles and steps right into Spock’s personal space, leaving him only a handful of inches. “Give me another hypothesis, then, Spock. Give me evidence to support it. Prove me wrong.”

“It is impossible to prove a negative,” Spock says through gritted teeth, but he doesn’t step away.

“Then tell me not to kiss you,” McCoy strikes fast, not giving Spock time to regroup.

“Do not kiss me.” Spock is a terrible liar; his eyes are wide, pupils dilated; his lips part on a breath. His hand flexes again: open and closed.

“Mean it,” McCoy breathes, drifting closer. Spock stares at him like a small mammal hypnotized by a cobra. He doesn’t move.

“I cannot,” he whispers, his voice breaking subtly on the last syllable.

McCoy smiles tenderly and closes the gap.

He kisses Spock with patient persistence, slow and sweet; after a long, terrible pause, Spock surrenders and lets him in. Spock’s hands clench to fists in McCoy’s shirt. 

All the leashed intensity of Spock is unveiled and brought to bear; McCoy is hoisted ass-first onto the table and Spock simply devours him. Their teeth clash, lips hard—then everything sorts itself out and they cling, tongues stroking—fiery desperation turns positively incendiary as they try to crawl inside one another. Spock’s breath gusts hot across McCoy’s cheek; his ass fits against McCoy’s palms like it was made to be there.

McCoy melts under it, gives himself up, absorbs it all and gives it right back to him: hot, wet, slick, desperate—perfect.

*****

The destruction after the stormy kiss is considerable: broken test tubes, slides, and beakers litter the floor around Spock’s feet; the electron microscope lies on its side on the table and will have to be re-calibrated. McCoy chuckles at the mess, voice throaty. Spock is still struggling to slow his breathing to normal. McCoy shifts to ease the constriction of his pants around his erection, then hops down.

“Looks like a tornado hit this place,” McCoy observes and grins at Spock, who flushes quite beautifully, his narrow lips kiss-stung and swollen, a distinct love bite visible on his throat above his collar. He is rumpled for once, perfect bangs askew, shirt unevenly shoved up to bunch about his waist and hips, entirely failing to hide his arousal. He looks positively edible. 

They still have about ten minutes of their half hour remaining, plenty of time to clean up, but no amount of sweeping is going to hide that hickey. 

“I’m taking you off duty for the day. Call it a mental health day,” McCoy says softly as he opens a cabinet. “We both need one after what happened on Arigon.” He reaches inside for the dustpan. He isn’t going to let Spock get away, let him vanish back into his shell—not until they’ve explored this. Not until he makes sure it’s not going to vanish like it never happened. 

Spock swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing, and nods merciful acquiescence. When they finish cleaning up, McCoy catches Spock’s hand, and Spock lets himself be tugged away.


	57. Solving for Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FLASH FICTION inspired vaguely by one paragraph in ["The Wind Here Sings" by Eddaic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12136137) and by a post I saw once (author forgotten, sorry) which analyzes Spock’s reaction to the “happy” feelings he experienced with Leila Kalomi– that post’s opinion about his clinical and indifferent perspective on happiness is rather different than mine.
> 
> AOS or TOS, gen, mild Spones

Spock considers happiness frequently in light of his experiences with Leila Kalomi. He considers it as a Vulcan should– or he attempts to; he isn’t quite sure he achieves the proper detachment. Happiness is a state he was once not intimately familiar with. Now he is. Its absence should not be a matter of note. A full Vulcan (a _true_ Vulcan, a _real_ Vulcan, his mind whispers in the voice of his childhood bullies) would not find its current absence a matter worthy of concern.

 _Kaiidth._ What is, is. 

Spock externalizes his improper concerns with happiness by directing his gaze abroad to others. What is this thing? Do all humans experience it? How frequently? How much is enough?

“It isn’t a god damn equation, Spock,” McCoy protests when queried. “You can’t solve a human for ‘happy’ like you can come up with the value of a mathematical constant. People don’t work that way.”

Perhaps they do not. Spock observes some people are happier, or less happy, than others. Perhaps McCoy was a poor choice of respondent; he seems less happy than many of Spock’s human crewmates. But McCoy is his… friend… and thus he was a logical choice.

A Vulcan should not see the absence of happiness as problematic, but humans clearly do– and thus it begins to bother Spock that McCoy is obviously not happy. Unhappiness may even have deleterious effects on his health, and thus on his professional function– which makes it Spock’s business to be concerned, after a fashion.

Spock begins to plot McCoy’s happiness like the trajectory of a parabola– it turns out to be a very irregular parabola, really more of a random set of data points, events connected only by the fact that they make McCoy smile or lighten his demeanor. 

Spock acts subtly to influence events, when he can, in small and judicious ways that may suffice to make McCoy happy. Occasionally he succeeds– upgrades to medical facilities, conceding a point in an argument, conspiring with the doctor to ensure Jim’s well-being. Betraying a flicker of highly inappropriate emotion can do it, in the right circumstances. But he can never compete with the big things: a call from McCoy’s daughter. Jim’s gift of a big bottle of Saurian brandy on a random date when McCoy seems particularly depressed– the anniversary of his divorce, Spock learns later. 

Evidence that Jim cares.

Fascinating.

He procures a modest amount of tree-grown fruit and presents it to McCoy on the date of his birth, as per human tradition– provoking not the hoped-for smile, but an acerbic, defensive sputter complete with derogatory references to the color of his blood and the shape of his ears. Spock is nonplused, even dismayed– until McCoy turns away with the little parcel in his hands, and Spock realizes the doctor’s step is light and springy, his shoulders lifted, his voice bright and energetic.

Spock stays long enough to hear McCoy begin to hum before he leaves, suppressing the temptation to let his own lips curve upward.

The equation may be insoluble over the long term, but for this moment, Spock has succeeded. McCoy is happy– and that, in turn, gives Spock a pleasant sense of contentment that he now recognizes, though he would not have done so before visiting Omicron Ceti III. 

He, too, is happy.


End file.
